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•Rabcliffe College, 

Cambrtbge, HDass. 








E Flubibits Uhuic. 

"These pabUeavtioiifi of the day should from time to time be winnowed, the wheat carefully preserved, and 

the chaff thrown away." 


" Hade np of every oreature's best 

" Tartans, that the mind 
Of desultory man, studious of change 
And pleased with novelty, may be indulged/' 








Randy Avery \ & Co., Printers, Boston* 






Edinburgh Review. 

The Progress of Medicine and Surgery, . 259 
The Works of Thackeray, . . .679 

Quarterly Review. 

Unpublished Letters of the Princess Char 

lotte 615 

The Sonnet, 628 

Madame de Sevigne', .... 648 

British Quarterly Review. 

The Emperor Alexander and the Policy of 

Russia, 411 

A Contribution Towards a Theory of Po- 
etry, ...;.. 769 

Contemporary Review. 

The American Prayer-Book. A Liturgical 

8tudy, 84 

The Three Interests in Old English Liter- 
ature, . . ' . . .828 

On the Hereditary Transmission of ac- 
quired Psychical Habits, . . 451 

Fronde and Calvin, .... 746 

Oliver Cromwell, . . ... .771 

Blackwood's Magazine. 

Johann Wolfgang Goethe, ... 8 

Middlemarch, 181 

Sir Tray : An Arthurian Idyl, . . 608 
Issues Raised by the Protestant Synod of 

Prance, 707 

The Parisians, 799 

Fraber's Magazine. 

Concerning the Disadvantages of Living 

in a Small Community, . . 81 

The Public Lands of the United States, . 176 
The Irish Brigade in the Service of France 

(1698-1791), .... 216 
A Visit to Shamyl's Country in the Au- 
tumn of 1870, .... 807 
Some Curiosities of Criticism, . . 865 

Plymouth, 568 

Wittenberg and Cologne, . . . 700 

Charles de Montalembert, . . . 792 

Dublin University Magazine, 

Instinct Demoralised, .... 604 

CoRNBiLL Magazine. 

The Scientific Gentleman, . . 94, 225 

Dogs whom I have Met 109 

Coincidences and Superstitions, . . 164 

Nathaniel Hawthorne 195 

On Some Peculiarities of Society in Amer- 
ica, 294 

Heroism, . . . • . . 847 

" An Ugly Dog," .... 880 

Brantome 488 

The Marriage of the Emperor of China, . 688 

Sea Novels : Captain Marryat, . . 676 

Maomillan's Magazine. 

The River Po, 67 

JSneas Sylvius Piooolomini — Pope Pius 

II ..... 67 729 

A Slip in the Fens, '. 861. 471, 540, 610| 751 

Fronde's English in Ireland, . . . 887 

The Migrations of Useful Plants, . . 487 

Instinct, 558 

Passages in the Life of a Bachelor, . . 689 

Saint Pauls. 

A Missing Comet and a Coming Meteor- 
Shower 25 

The Misfortunes of a Geologist, . . 494 

St. Jakes Magazine. 

The Two Brothers, . . 85, 169, 425, 788 

People's Magazine. 

An Evening with Mrs. Somerville, • • 816 

Temple Bab. 

Talleyrand, 40 

Marryat, 106 

Good Words. 

The Fate of Pets, 249 

Buddhist Preaching, .... 252 

Paganini 874,608 




The Miller of Manneville, . . • . 282 

London Society. 
The King Lear of the Russian Steppes, . 48 

Dark Blub. 

The Azores, 802 

Winter Fare, 498 

Tutoley's Magazine. 
The Felis Fosmina, .... 491 

Fritz Reuter. 

His Little Serene Highness, 20, 76, 146, 208, 
274, 889, 408, 468, 681, 594, 667, 721 , 784 


The Rise of Great Families, • . .125 
The Maori Character, . . . .180 
Animal Grotesques, . . . .188 
Brides and Bridals, .... 185 
Dryden and Modern Style, . . . 222 
The Germans in South Africa, . .819 

Mental Acquisition and Inheritance, . 445 

The New Pretender, 611 

Prince Bismarck's Jeremiad, . . . 672 
Approaching Transit of Venus, . . 702 
The Spanish Republio, . . . .766 


Napoleon m 441 

The Prussian State Church, . . .821 

Saturday Review. 

Reading Trash 62 

Overwork, 442 

Force in Literature, • 687 

Pall Mall Gazette. 

Matchmaking by Advertisement, • 124 

Mrs. Somerville 128 

«« The White Man's Grave," . . .187 

Bookshelves, 470 

Hereditary Abdication, .... 765 

History of Russian Progress in China, . 822 


"Love is Enough," . 

The True Story of the Ships sent by Charles 
I. to Serve against the French Prot- 

Chambers' Journal. 

Vegetable Invaders, .... 

Sarah Martin, the Dress-maker, 

Party Colors, 



Once ▲ Week. 
Kotow, 820 


Mrs. Somerville, 61 

SeaSickness 168 

Popular Science Review. 

The First Chapter of the Geological Record, 120 
Spontaneous Movements in Plants, . . 242 

Notes and Queries. 
Mrs. Browning's Dog " Flush," . . 817 

N. T. Tribune. 
Population in the United States, 



Ajtkal Grotesques, .... 
America, On some Peculiarities of Society 


Asores, The, • • • 
Africa, 8outh, The Germans in, 
Alexander and the Policy of Russia, 
Abdication, Hereditary 



Baud, Wm. fif., 158 

Brides and Bridals, .... 185 

Buddhist Preaching 252 

Brantome, 488 

Bid^s Comet, . . . .25,448 

Bookshelves, 470 

Bismarck's Jeremiad 572 

Browning's, Mrs., Dog " Plush," . . 817 

Cohbt, A Missing, and a Coming Meteor- 
Shower 25,448 

Coincidences and Superstitions, 
Coati-Mondi, Habits of the, . 
Criticism, Some Curiosities of, 
Charlotte, Princess, Unpublished Letters 

of the, 
Census of the United States, 
China, Marriage of the Emperor of, 
Cologne and Wittenberg, 
CtWin and Froude, • 
Cromwell, Oliver, . 
Cobra, Party, 

Church, The Prussian 8tate, 
China, History of Russian Progress in, 

Bogs Whom I have Met, 
Dryden and Modern Style, 

Bhoush Literature, Old, Three Interests 

English in Ireland, Froude's, 

Foams and Fruit-Growing, 
Families, Great, Rise of, 
Fisheries, The, 
Froude's English in Ireland, 
Felis Foemina, 
Force in Literature, 
France, Protestant Synod of, 
Fronde and Calvin, . 






Goethe, Johann Wolfgang, ... 8 
Geological Record, The First Chapter of 

the 120 

Grotesques, Animal, .... 188 

Germans. The, in South Africa, . . 819 

His Little Serene Highness, 20, 76, 146, 208, 
274, 889, 408, 468, 581, 594, 667, 721, 784 


Hawthorne, Nathaniel, 


Hereditary Psychical Transmission, 
History of Russian Progress in China, 

Indian Policy of the President, 

Insanity in the Middle Ages, . 

Irish Brigade in the Service of France, 

Ireland, Froude's English in, . 

Inheritance, Mental Acquisition and, 

Instinct Demoralised, 

Invaders, Vegetable, 


Kino Lear of the Russian Steppes, 
Kombe Arrow Poison, 


Lots is Enough," 
Lands, Public, of the United States, 
Literature, Old English, Three Interests in 
Force in. 


Metboe Showers and Comets, • 


Matchmaking by Advertisement, 
Middlemaroh, .... 

Maori Character, The, • 
Medicine and Surgery, Progr e s s of, . 
Miller of Manneville, The, 
Mokuaweoweo, The Volcano of, 
Mental Acquisition and Inheritance, 
Migrations of Useful Plants, . 
Misfortunes of a Geologist, 
Marryat, Captain, 
Montalembert, Charles de, 
Martin, Sarah, the Dress-Maker, . 

Napoleon HI., 








Overwork, 442 

Po, The River, 67 

Picoolomini, JEneas Silvius, Pope Pius II. , 67 , 

Prayer Book, The American, ... 84 
Public Lands of the United States, . . 175 

Pets, The Fate of, 249 

Paganini 874,603 

Plants, Useful, Migrations of, . . . 487 
Pretender, The New, . . . .611 

Plymouth, 663 

Population of the United States, . . 575 
Passages in the Life of a Bachelor, . . 689 
Protestant Synod of France, Issues Raised 

by the, 707 

Poetry, A Contribution towards a Theory 

of 759 

Parisians, The, 799 

Party Colors, 818 

Prussian State Church, The, . . .821 

Reading Trash 62 

Roohelle, True Story of the Ships Sent to 

Serve against the Protestants of, . 190 
Russia, The Policy of, . . . .411 
Russian Progress in China, History of, . 822 

Small Community, Disadvantages of Liv- 
ing in a, 81 

Somervilie, Mrs., .... 61,127 
Scientific Gentleman, The, . . 94, 225 
Superstitions and Coincidences, . . 154 
Sea-Sickness 168 

Sierra Leone, 187 

Spontaneous Movements in Plants, . . 242 
Surgery and Medicine, Progress of, . . 259 
Society in America, On Sdme Peculiarities 

of, 294 

Shamyrs Country, A Visit to, . . 807 

Slip in the Fens, A, . 861, 471, 611, 751- 

Sonnet, The, .628 

Sheba, Discovery of the Palace of the 

Queen of, 640 

Sevigne, Madame de, 643 

Snakes, Poisonous, 675 

Sea Novels, Captain Marryat, . . 676 

Spanish Republic, The, .... 766 
Somervilie, Mrs., An Evening with, . 816 

State Church, The Prussian, . . .821 

The Two Brothers, . 85, 169, 425, 788 

Talleyrand, . . ' . . . .40 

Tray, Sir, An Arthurian Idyl, 
Thackeray, The Works of, 

United States, Public Lands of the, 

" Population of the, 

Ugly Dog," "An, . 

Vegetable Invaders, 

Venus, Approaching Transit of, 

White Man's Grave," " The, . 
Whales, Rheumatism in, . 

Winter Fare 

Wittenberg and Cologne, 






All Saints' Day, 

Advent, . 

Antony and Cleopatra, 


Fire, After the, 
From One to Another, 

Going Away, 

Horse and Rider, 
Home Again, . 

Lavinia, . 

Love Lies Bleeding, 

Mystery, A, • . 
Mary's Dream, 
My Study, 

New Tear, For the, 

Old Age, 

" Only Waste Paper, 

Organ Chant, . • 




886, 614 








Progress of Our New Church, . . 822 

Piano, The Old 450 

Palindrome, ...'.. 675 

Phantoms, 706 

Pine, The, . . . . . .728 

Recollection, A, 180 

Senators, The, of Treves, . . . 180 

Silver Wedding Day, .... 194 

Sweetness and Light, .... 207 

Song 258 

Sorrow, not Trouble, . . . .514 

Song of the Seasons. .... 706 

Thy Work is Done 258 

Twilight, In the, 450 

Tray, Sir, an Arthurian Idyl, . . . 608 



Venus's Looking Glass 886 

Violet, 450 

Winter, 194 

Warning, The, .... 642 




Little Serene Highness, 20, 76, 146, 208, 
274, 839, 408. 468, 681, 594, 667, 721, 784 

King Lear of the Russian Steppes, . • 48 

Miller of Msmnevflle, The, . .282 

Hisfortonea of a Geologist, • • • 494 

Passages in the Lift of a Bachelor, . . 889 
Parisians, The, 799 

Soientifio Gentleman, The, . 94, 225 

81ip in the Fens, A, 861, 471, 540, 611, 751 

The Two Brothers, 
Ugly Dog," " An, 

85, 169, 426, 788 
. 880 







Patent Hinged Cap. 
Patent Inside Bolt- Work. 
Inside Iron Lining. 
Wrought Angle Iron Corners. 
Inside Iron Doors. 
Four Wheel Comnlnntlon Lock. 
■ in ib» 



. hni been justly remarked that the popular 
judgment, deliberately made up, ie correct and 
reliable. " Bcrhett's Stahdabd Fumu- 
tons," are art ides in point. They comprise 
Cocoaint " forth* Hair, " Kalliiton " fur the 
Skin," "Florimtl" for the Handkeroblef."UH- 
tntal Tooth Waih " for toe Teeth and Game, 
and "Caloant Water " which is unequalled. 



Five Sine. UnpansUed Bottles. 

These SUPERIOR EXTRACTS' are innrlafab' 

acknowledged the purest and beat in the world. 

They have stood the teat of time and compnti- 

tion, and an emphatically favorites with the, 

people, and leaders with the trade. 

Tktir ttandard quantity and quality will is 

ttrictly ntaintaintd. 


Sale Proprietors, Bmlw. 



be! Did tod wyi*1 WeH, 

Erettteet piece of nails and 
on It Is, neod *Oct". fbr sons 

cut™, "KWtflilltDtri," 

CO.. All«n,KWi. 

Bostoh, July IT, 1872. 

Having examinfld the fire-proof safes manu- 
factured by Meesjrs, Morris ft Ireland, we do not 
hesitate to recommend them, as In our Judg- 
ment, Unexcelled by any in the market. By a 
Tote of the Committee a number of these safes 
were need at the Coliseum during the late 
World's Peace Jubilee, when they gov e entire 

Geo. II. Davis (of Hallett, Davis * Co.), Chair- 
man Executive Committee; Eben D, Jordan (of 
Jordan, Marsh S Co.), Treasurer of Executive 
Committee; Henry G. Parker, Secretary of the 
Executive Committee; Hear; Mason (of Mason 
ft Hamlin Organ Co.); J. H. Chad wick, Treas- 
urer of Boston Lead Co., Samuel Little, Chair- 
man Board of Aldermen; M. P. Dickinson, 
President Common Cotmoil; M. M. Ballon, 
Editor-in-Chief of Daily Glabt; Lewis Rloa, 
Proprietor of the American House; Gardner 
Wetherbee, of Wetherbee, Chapin & Co., Pro- 
prietors of the Tnmont and Severe Houses; 
Bdward Sands. President Traders' National 


The Publishers of LIPPINCOTTS MAGA- 
ZINE will present Ttn Dalian' worth of tbet- 
pablicationi — to be selected from their list m" 
over 2000 works — to any person sending them 
a Club of Ten yearly subscribers at club ratf, 
88 each (9* « the regular prioe). Special 
Circular, with Catalogue, nailed on application. 
Specimen number of Lifpihcor's Hacuiihs. 
Iltvitrated, mailed to any address on receipt of 
Ten Cents. Address. 


Fifth Belief 


No. 1491. — January 4, 1873. 

(From Beginn ing, 
I Vol. OXVL 


1. Johanh Wolfoako Goethe, .... Blackwood** Magazine, 

2. His Little Serene Highness. Parti., Trans- 

lated from the Piatt- DeuUch of . . Fritz Renter, . / . 

8. A Miasnro Comet and a Cominq Mkteoe-- 

Showee, By R. A. Prootor, 8aint Pauls, 


a Small Community Fraser't Magazine, . 

5. The Two Brothkbs. By MM. Erokmann-Chat- 

rian. Part I., 8t. James Ma&izine, 

6. Talleyrand. By the author of •• Mirabeau," Temple Bar, 

7. The Kino Leak or the Russian Steppes. Trans- 

lated from Ivan Tourguenef, . . . London Society, 

& The River Po. By A. C. Ramsay, F.R.S., . Macmillan** Magazine, 

9. Has. Somebville, Nature, 

10. Reading Thlabh, 8aiurday Review, 









's Htmn fob Au. SiiNTs* Day 2 | Advent, 

19. 24, 64 




Fob Eight Dollars, remitted directly to the Publisher*, the Living Age will be punctually for- 
warded for a year, free of postage. But we do not prepay postage on less than a year, nor when we hare 
to par eounniss Ion for forwarding the money ; nor when we club The Living Age with another 

An extra copy of The Living Age is sent gratis to any one getting up a club of Five New Subscribers. 

Remittances should be made by bank draft or cheek, or by post-offioe money-order, if possible. If 
•either of these can be procured, the money should be sent in a registered letter. All postmasters are 
obliged to register letters when requested to do so. Drafts, checks and money-orders should be made 
payable to the order of Littell fc Gat. 


From Mocmillin's If agosina 

Beings an adaptation of ArndVt Poem : " Was 
Ut du Deutschen VaUrland f " 

Whebr is the Christian's Fatherland? 

Is it the Holy Hebrew Land ? 

In Nazareth's vale, on Zion's steep, 

Or by the Galilean deep ? 

Where pilgrim hosts have rush'd to lave 

Their stains of sin in Jordan's wave, 

Or sought to win by brand and blade 

The tomb wherein their Lord was laid ? 

Where is the Christian's Fatherland 7' 
Is it the haunted Grecian strand, 
Where Apostolic wanderers first 
The yoke of Jewish bondage burst ? 
Or where, on many a mystio page, 
Byzantine prelate, Coptic sage, 
Fondly essay M to intertwine 
Earth's shadows with the Light Divine 7 

Or is the Christian's Fatherland 

Where, with crown'd head and croziered hand, 

The Ghost of Empire proudly flits, 

And on the grave of Csesar sits? 

by those world-embracing walls, 

in those vast and pictur'd halls, 

O underneath that soaring dome, 

Shall this not be the Christian's home 7 

Where is the Chistian's Fatherland 7 — 
He still looks on from land to land — 
Is it where German conscience woke, 
When Luther's lips of thunder spoke 7 
Or where by Zurich's shore was heard 
The calm Helvetian's earnest word 7 
Or where, beside the rushing Rhone, 
Stern Calvin rear'd his unseen throne 7 
Or where from Sweden's snows came forth 
The stainless hero of the North 7 

Or is there yet a oloser band — 
Our own, our native Fatherland 7 
Where Law and Freedom side by side 
In Heaven '8 behalf have gladly vied 7 
Where prayer and praise for years have rung 
In Shakespeare's accents, Milton's tongue, 
Blessing with cadence sweet and grave 
The fireside nook, the ocean wave, 
And a'er the broad Atlantio hurl'd 
Wakening to life another world 7 

No, Christian! no! — not even here. 

By Christmas hearth or churchyard dear; 

Nor yet on distant ehores brought nigh 

By martyr's blood or prophet's cry — 

Nor Western pontiff's lordly name, 

Nor Eastern Patriarch's hoary fame — 

Nor e'en where shone sweet Bethlehem's star : 

Thy Fatherland is wider far. 

Thy native home is wheresoe'er 
Christ's Spirit breathes a holier air; 
Where Christ-like Faith is keen to seek 
What Truth or Conscience freely speak — 

Where Christ-like Love delights to span 
The rents that sever man from man — 
Where round God's throne His just ones 

stand — 
There, Christian, is thy Fathk&laiyd. 
Coloonb, Sept, 20, 1872. A. P. 8.. 


Thb accompanying Hymn is offered as a sequel to 
the two which have already appeared in this Maga- 
zine (April 1870) on the Ascension and the Trans- 
figuration. The first four titan cas run parallel to the 
Gospels of the four Sundays in Advent, and' the 
two last to the Gospels and Epistle* of Christmas.. 

Thb Lord is come ! On Syrian soil, 
The Child of poverty and toil — 
The Min of Sorrows, born to know 
Each varying shade of human woe : 
His joy, His glory to fulfil, 
In earth and heav'n, His Father's will; 
On lonely mount, by festive board, 
On bitter cross, — despis'd, odor'd. 

The Lord is come! Dull hearts to wake, 

He speaks, as never man yet spake, 

The Truth which makes His servants free, 

The Royal Law of Liberty. 

Though heav'n and earth shall pass away. 

His living words our spirits stay, 

And from His treasures, new and old, 

Th' eternal mysteries unfold. 

The Lord is come! With joy behold 
The gracious signs, declar'd of old ; 
The ear that hears, the eye that sees, 
The sick restored to health and ease; 
The poor, that from their low estate 
Are rous'd to seek a nobler fate; 
The minds with doubt and dread possess'd. 
That find in Him their perfect rest. 

The Lord is come! The world's great stage 

Begins a better, brighter age : 

The old gives place unto the new; 

The false retires before the true; 

A progress that shall never tire, 

A central heat of sacred fire, 

A hope that soars beyond the tomb, 

Reveal that Christ has truly come. 

The Lord is come! In Him we trace 
The fulness of God's Truth and Grace; ' 
Throughout those words and acts divine 
Gleams of th' Eternal splendour shine; 
And from His inmost Spirit flow, 
As from a height of sunlit snow, 
The rivers of perennial life 
To heal and sweeten Nature's strife. 

The Lord is come! In ev'ry heart, 
Where Truth and Mercy claim a part; 
In every land where Right is Might, 
And deeds of darkness shun the light; 
In every churoh where Faith and Love 
Lift earthward thoughts to things above; 
In every holy, happy home. 
We bless Thee, Lord, that Thou hast come! 

A P. Stanley. 



From Blaekwood't Magazine. 

It must always be a great deal more 
difficult to estimate justly and understand 
fully the power and gift of a poet whose 
works are in a foreign language, than to 
appreciate the singers whose tongue is our 
own. A great deal of the absolute essence 
and soul of poetry evaporates in the very 
best translation ; and all its most subtle 
graces are apt to elude the student who 
reads by the help of dictionaries and gram- 
mars. In this particular, above all others, 
is made visible the influence of that little 
audience of cultivated readers who stand 
between the poet and the ordinary public, 
impressing often by but slow degrees their 
judgment and opinion upon the less-in- 
formed intelligences that take from them 
their cue. There is no poetic name within 
the last hundred years which has won a 
higher place than that of Goethe — we 
might indeed say, and with some truth, 
has won so high a place ; and yet how few 
is the number of ordinary English readers 
who know Goethe in anything but the 
most superficial and accidental way! A 
translation of "Faust," taken up impar- 
tially, without scrutiny into its rank — the 
most indifferent being as likely as the best ; 
a remembered glance, twenty years ago* 
for those of us who are old enough, into 
Carlyle's "Wilbelm Meister;" a vague 
traditionary recollection of Werter, with 
perhaps the Erl-king, as a very great re- 
finement of knowledge, to crown the in- 
formation, — about so much of Goethe, but 
no more, may be supposed to be generally 
known to the English reader. And yet 
even the uninstrocted reader, thus meagrely 
informed, recognizes the greatness of the 
name, and does a sort of homage, mingled 
with reyerence or with scorn, with love or 
with hatred, as the case may be, to the 
great poet, fashioned so unlike most of our 
ideas of what a poet should be, yet shadow- 
ing over earth and sea in an abstract size 
and vastness which no one can deny. This 
kind of shadowy impression of greatness 
made upon the mind of the world in spite 
of itself, is almost a more convincing proof 
of the rank of the poet than that more just 
and clear conviction of excellence which 
intimate knowledge gives ; and in Goethe's 

case the unanimous testimony is all the 
greater from the fact that he is. as a man, 
hateful to a great proportion of the people 
who unwillingly accord to him so high a 
place among his peers. His is one of the 
figures about which men, looking back, 
lose all the calm of historical observation. 
The thought of him still influences the 
mind as with a personal partisanship. To 
the smaller number (and let us allow that 
this smaller number includes those who 
know Goethe best) he is more than a 
poet — he is an idol, one of the greatest, 
wisest, and best of beings. But to a large 
proportion of the world he is, as a man — 
we do not think we use too strong a 
word — hateful. His votaries worship him 
with a blind faith and superstition such as 
are commonly enough found in conjunc- 
tion with the highest intelligence, so long 
as that faith is not called forth towards 
sacred things; and a great many of the 
rest of us detest him with an instinctive 
and thorough repugnance which is inde- 
pendent of reason. But no one denies 
his greatness, his exalted place, his rank 
among the highest. To very few men 
since the world began has such a universal 
testimony been given ; and it is not in the 
nature of things that such a testimony 
could be other than true. 

But in face of this great and perplexing 
figure there are so many questions to ask 
and difficulties to settle, that the work of 
the critio is hard and doubly perplexing. 
A great many minds of high endowment 
have yielded themselves, with a devotion 
almost abject, to the influence of Goethe ; 
while upon as many more he has exercised 
as distinct an influeuce of repulsion, driv- 
ing them from him. The former class have 
expounded themselves and their worship 
so fully as to need no further exposition, 
'J o the latter he appears in his greatness 
like a gigantic gdnie of the earth and air — 
a being possessing attributes so different 
from ours that it requires an effort to 
recognize him as actually of our own spe- 
cies, bound by the same rules of being. 
This separation from human nature is not 
of the kind which in imagination we are 
willing to assign to poets. His is not the 
fanciful, abstract, dreamy being, helpless 
among the cares of earth, born for higher 


occupations and aspirations, which we are 
disposed to accept with a certain indul- 
gence — an indulgence which makes our 
reverence the greater. Instead of that 
poetical conception of the poet, the spec- 
tator finds himself face to face with a man 
perfectly qualified to contend with the 
world, and. to master it; not only not 
deficient in practical force and adroitness, 
but singularly endowed with all the 
strength and all the weapons necessary 
for everyday warfare ; not shrinking, timid, 
and impassioned, but brave and cool be- 
yond the ordinary range of mortal strength 
and self-command ; not impulsive and way- 
ward, but collected and steadfasl — full of 
reflection, resolution — a man of purpose 
and perseverance aud strenuous capacity. 
At sight of all these manifold endowments 
our inclination to patronize what we ad- 
mire is rendered impossible; and with 
something of the same feeling which steels 
a man's heart against the woman, however 
attractive, however fascinating, who has 
no need of his superior strength, the heai t 
of the world is repelled by the poet who 
stands in need of no indulgence, no tender 
patronage, no kind shutting of the eyes to 
his weakness, in the very midst of its 
adoration of his powers. 

There are, however, reasons deeper than 
this superficial one for the repugnance 
which many readers, even when unable to 
resist the magic of his genius, feel towards 
Goethe. There is something inhuman in 
his greatness. We do not use the word as 
implying any want of geniality in his charac- 
ter, or of general benevolence and kind- 
ness towards other men; but rather to 
express the strange separation and self- 
concentration of his nature. He was in- 
human, as Jove and Apollo were inhuman. 
It is not as a man, but as a demi-god 
raised above man in a smooth and grand 
completeness, that we regard him. He is 
not, as other men, created, for common du- 
ties and common relationships, whose life 
is a network of connection with others, who 
exist for others, and for the ordinary use 
and service of the world. Goethe, on the 
contrary, is one of those rare beings for 
whom the world is made. To his own 
consciousness it is a huge machine devised 
for his education, for his instruction — to 

minister to him, to communicate experi- 
ences, informations — to afford him, by its 
different arts, and by various of its inhabi- 
tants, stepping-stones by which to elevate 
himself to such a position that gods and 
men may look upon him and wonder. He 
is irresponsible, un-moral, a being above 
law — nay, he makes the impression upon 
us of a being existent of his own power 
and will, not throwing off the bonds of 
duty so much as born in a sphere above 
them — created for his own purposes, not 
for God's. To some minds this very idea 
may seem profane, as if implying that such 
an incarnation of semi-deity was one of 
the possibilities of life ; but it is an idea 
which we think must, in one way or other, 
strike all who seriously contemplate the 
character of Goethe. So far as we can re- 
call, he stands' alone in this superb but un- 
swerving isolation. There is no one like 
him anywhere — so self-concentrated, so 
self-conscious, so calmly certain that for 
him the universe is and was created. Such 
an idea lightly and momentarily held is 
part of the splendid inheritance of faith 
with which most of us euter life ; but in 
usual circumstances this confidence is torn 
from us so soon that the belief is too airy 
and evanescent to afford more than one 
delusive moment of grandeur and delight. 
Goethe never allowed this faith to be taken 
from him. It was no delusion of his youth, 
but the calm assurance of the demi-god's 
nature : that earth and Germany and Saxe- 
Weimar were especially formed — not he 
for them, as is the generous ideal of anoth- 
er kind of soul, but they for him ; that the 
men, and especially the women, who came 
in his way, were in like manner created for 
his use, to afford him the means of culti- 
vating himself and all his faculties. We 
might put Shakespeare, and Italy, and the 
Greek mythology, and even science, into 
the same category, were it not that these 
sources of mental profit had to be shared 
with other men, and primarily belonged, 
so to 8 peak, to other men, so that he could 
not lay the first and most absolute claim 
to them. But this is the position in which 
we find him from the earliest of his days 
to the last. Even when he makes himself 
the exponent of his age, he is still sepa- 
rate from that age, taking advantage of it, 


raising himself upon its shoulders, indiffer- 
ent to it, thoughtful only for himself. 

Tbis self-concentration, however, can 
scarcely be called selfishness; neither is 
there any lack in it of a certain careless 
generosity, magnanimity, even fellow-feel- 
ing for the lesser creatures who surround 
him. No one more than he feels the pa- 
tho6 of the situation in which he leaves his 
Frederikas, his Frau yon Steins. His sym- 
pathy, it is true, has not the slightest in- 
fluence upon his actions, which are mould- 
ed by a higher rule — viz., that of the ne- 
cessities of progress and self-culture ; but 
still he has the power of throwing himself 
into their feelings, and of sorrowing with 
them. In other relationships less delicate 
he is perfectly kind, liberal, friendly. 
Suffering is as disagreeable to him as ugli- 
ness, and he never hesitates to exert him- 
self to remove it. He is even susceptible 
—most tremulously and delicately suscep- 
tible — to all superficial influences. In his 
youth, his biographer Mr. Lewes tells us, 
he would take up the occupations and ac- 
complishments of his friends along with 
them, studying art with the painter, and 
even learning his trade with the craftsman, 
in an exuberance of social sympathy such 
as few can emulate. All that the demi-god 
is capable of was strong in Goethe. He 
could throw himself into the being of oth- 
ers, working with them, feeling with them, 
finding the enjoyment of a larger nature 
in their sorrows as well as in their joys. 
What he could not do was to receive them | 
into his being, as he threw himself into 
theirs. That was not possible to him. It 
is the limitation of greatness, but still it is 
a limitation. He could communicate al- 
most to any extent of liberality, but he 
coold not receive. All that came to him 
from the outer world was superficial, af- 
fected the surface of him, and was con- 
sciously used by him for his own mental ' 
advantage, but never possessed him, car- . 
ried him away, drew him out of himself. 
8uch natures are to be met with even on a 
lower intellectual altitude than that of I 
Goethe. Men there are in the world, and 
even women, kind, generous, and sympa- 
thetic, who are yet incapable of those im- | 
pressions from others which turn the scale 
of fortune and direct life into new chan- 

nels. They may receive comfort, pleasure, 
instruction, from without, but never direc- 
tion, or even serious influence. They may 
be warm lovers and strenuous friends, but 
they are incapable of being turned from 
the natural tenor of their way, or swept 
into the fulness of another. Goethe was 
moved by all, yet moved by none — trem- 
ulous like the compass, yet, like it, fixed, 
and incapable of divergence from the 
grand centre of gravitation. And in his 
case the centre was himself. 

We are not so daring as to say a word 
against that mystery of self-culture which 
many philosophers hold out to us as the 
only thing worth living for, and in which 
many great minds have spent all their 
powers. It may have a generous as it cer- 
tainly has a noble side. The idea of a ' 
man who consecrates this fleetinz human 
existence to the improvement of the facul- 
ties God has given him, scorning all mean- 
er kinds of advantage, is without doubt a 
fine one ; and it is finer still when his aim 
in self-improvement is to serve and help his 
fellow-men. Yet there is something in hu- 
man nature which cries out against this 
pursuit with the vehemence df instinct, 
and is, secretly or openly, revolted by it. 
We applaud the man who pursues Art to 
perfection, who pursues Science even in 
her least attractive forms, or who devotes 
himself with enthusiasm even to the lower 
branches of human knowledge. The spec- 
tator figures to himself something abstract, 
something apart from and loftier than the 
student, which he follows through all diffi- 
culties, and labours, and struggles, even 
though at the cost of his life. But at the 
name of self-culture our enthusiasm flags. 
We do not explain the change of senti- 
ment, we merely state the fact. No doubt, 
of all the waste lands that are given us to 
cultivate, this one of the mind is the most 
valuable, and probably the most improva- 
ble ; and we are bound to do our best with 
it, to produce the best that is practicable 
from it, and in the best way. Most true ; 
yet our prejudice remains unaffected. And 
there is reason in it, as in all universal 
prejudices. There is something in the the- 
ory of self-culture which transgresses all 
the modesties of human nature, and strikes 
that hidden consciousness of insignificance 


which lies deep down in our hearts, as with 
a jar of discord and ridicule. What 1 use 
all this great universe, so majestic, so 
steadfast, and so sublime, for the cultiva- 
tion of one 8 peck upon its surface ; make 
vassals of all the powers of earth, and all 
the sights of nature, and all the emotions 
and passions of man — not for some big 
purpose, like the glory of God or the ad- 
vancement of the race, but for the polish- 
ing and improvement of one intellect, for 
the sharpening of one man's wits, and the 
enlarging of his experience and the im- 
provement of his utterance 1 The intel- 
lect alist may say, How splendid the or- 
ganization which can thus show its su- 
premacy over all thing3 created 1 but the 
common man feels a certain sharp revul- 
sion, a mixture of scorn and indignation, 
humiliation and shame. There is even a 
bitter mockery to him in this devotion of 
himself as well, his anguish and his errors, 
to the cultivation of the arrogant intellect, 
which regards him as a bundle of natural 
phenomena. This gives the special sting 
to that repugnance which' we feel involun- 
tarily towards the human creature whose 
life is professedly spent in the culture of 
himself. Does not something fail in our 
reverence for Wordsworth, for example, 
when we are bidden to believe that the 
poet — instead of living, as we are glad to 
think, in an enthusiasm of communion 
which was almost worship, with his moun- 
tains and lakes — made them instruments 
for the cultivation of himself, putting him- 
self simply to school there, and living that 
life of lofty seclusion for him and not for 
them ? How different is the feeling with 
which we contemplate Burns, who was 
never apart from these influences of 
nature, whose head and heart were full 
of them, who was made a poet* by the 
grey hills and moorlauds, the homely 
beauty of the ploughed fields, the daisy 
under his plough, and the stars over his 
head, but never once thought, in his sim- 
plicity, of self-culture by their means 1 
Goethe offends a thousand times more 
deeply* than Wordsworth ever did, Bince 
man, not to say woman, is his primer and 
spelling-book, and the years of his curricu- 
lum are marked by so many sucked oranges 
in the shape of loves and friendships from 
which he had taken all the sweetness that 
was in them ere he passed upon his tri- 
umphant way. This is his sin against hu- 
manity — the sin which we can not pardon 
him ; which neither genius nor success, nor 
even benevolence, graciousness, and char- 
ity, can make up for. Other men have no 
doubt been equally inconstant, equally 

disrespectful of their fellows; but some- 
how the coarsest Lovelace has an excuse 
which the philosophical lover has not ; and 
he who sacrifices old allies to his ambition 
is less of a criminal to nature than he who, 
after having exploit^ another human soul, 
puts it aside because he has got all he can 
out of it, and it is useful to htm no more. 

It is thus that we sum up the indictment 
of humanity against the great poet, whose 
greatness we throw no doubt upon, whose 
works we will not attempt to depreciate, 
and whose place among men is, we admit, 
beyond the reach of assault. No contem- 
porary nor any snccessor has had so much 
influence upon literature. He has been 
the origiuator of schools of poetry with 
which he himself was scarcely connected. 
He has given the divine stimulus of awak- 
ening life to more than one mind almost as 
great as his own, and all this independent 
of the mass of noble poetry which in his 
own person he has bestowed upon the 
world. But with all he stands among us 
in a beauty scarcely human, smiling that 
smile of the superior which is alien to 
genius, — a great being who watches us, 
pities us, tolerates us, pierces us through 
and through, with halt-divine perception, 
but is no more one of us than Jove is. 
His fulness, completeness, good fortune, 
long life, exemption from all natural griefs 
end calamities, are scarcely required to 
heighten the effects of nature ; but they 
do nevertheless raise the tone of colour 
and intensify the high lights in this won- 
derful picture. Even his personal beauty 
adds to the strength of the hypothesis. 
He is no man like us, but a veiled Apollo, 
a visitor from among the gods. All sense 
of ordinary human morality, responsibility, 
is to be laid aside in our contemplation of 
him, and we yield to admiration, even to 
enthusiasm, for his genius, with a reluc- 
tance which contrasts strongly with the 
hearty readiness of the applause which we 
bestow on much inferior men. 

We must add, however, that all this is 
said from an English point of view, and 
professes to represent no more than the 
sentiments of a large portion of foreign 
readers. Goethe has been the idol of his 
own country since ever he revealed himself 
to her, as Dante is the idol of Italy, and 
Shakespeare of England. And we do not 
doubt that, had we apace to pursue the 
inquiry, he would be proved to be such an 
embodiment of the genius of his country, 
in all its height and breadth, its remorae- 
leasness and kindness, its cold determina- 
tion and mystical hot enthusiasm, its steady 
pursuance of an end through whatsoever 


means were necessary, shrinking from noth- 
ing — as to afford reason sufficient for the 
worship given him by his countrymen. 
Into this consideration it is not necessary 
to enter ; but it is well to remember that 
the aspect of the man, which strikes us 
with repugnance, is one which has raised 
his own people to the highest expression 
of sentiment which a nation can make 
towards its favourite singer. That deep- 
searching Teutonic mind which spares no 
trouble, no labour to itself, no cost to 
others — which has such a melting suscep- 
tibility indoors, and such a pitiless deter- 
mination without — is the kind of mind to 
appreciate self-culture in all those heights 
and depth3 which thrill our less thorough- 
going philosophy. The steady persever- 
ance of a scientific aim through everything, 
the subordination (when necessary) of 
other people's happiness and comfort to 
the acquisition of a fine piece of spiritual 
experience — processes which strike us 
with a certain sense of calm and polished 
barbarity — are to the Teuton so natural 
and praiseworthy as to claim no special 
comment Neither the poet nor the nation 
would do this wantonly — only when nec- 
essary, — when the culture of the one or 
the progress of the other made it indispen- 
sable. To our minds such ways of work- 
ing one's will, are never indispensable : 
but feelings differ even in the heart of 
civilization. That Goethe, however, in his 
integrity, may very well be taken as a 
type of his nation, few Germans will hesi- 
tate to allow with pride. All its patient, 
long-enduring theories, its kindliness in 
detail, its stern abstract disregard of all 
cruelties thatfare necessary, its persevering 
pursuit of knowledge at any cost, its 
abundant sentimentalities and pitiless res- 
olution, are all to be found in him magni- 
fied and glorified. His serenity is the very 
apotheosis of its phlegmatic temper, his 
brilliant persistence the most beautiful 
type of its obstinate determination. And 
when we read of the poet's use of every- 
body and everything around him, men's 
friendship and women's love, for his own 
stepping-stones and educational courses, 
we remember (with a shudder) the later 
story of those Prussian* officers who 
marched secretly at the head of imaginary 
armies through peaceable France before a 
blow had been struck or menace uttered, 
[lacing their pickets in imagination with 
a horrible matter-of-fact and business-like 
prevision of what was to come ; and wri- 

* See official reports of Prussian generals touch- 
tag the late war. 

ting down — in the gay cafes, amid merry 
talkers all unconscious of that grim com- 
ment upon the uncertainty of their peace- 
able lives — those notes and reports which 
were at once the foundation and foreshad- 
owing of reports made afterward, when 
the armies were no longer imaginary, and 
when all this awful cold-blooded study 
had ended in the victory which no doubt 
it deserved. No doubt the victory was 
deserved ; being wrought for by such long 
labour, such minute care, such persever- 
ing, patient, unwearied work. But the 
work, and the way of deserving, are saoh 
as chill the blood in one's veins; 

We repeat, if it is necessary to repeat it, 
that we are neither accusing Goethe nor 
his country of any want of the gentler af- 
fections—kindness, charity, and benevo- 
lence. He was very good to a great many 
people, supported various poor petitioners, 
took thought and pains for his dependants, 
and was often most considerate and sym- 
pathetic in word and feeling, as well as 
kind in act. He was simply remorseless 
in carrying out his projects, whatever they 
might be — pleasantly, good-bumouredly, 
affectionately remorseless — not to be 
turned from that sublime work of self- 
cultivation by anything in earth or heaven. 

Goethe was born in the year 1749, in 
the town of Frankfort, in the old world, 
before the French Revolution was dreamt 
of, when Frederick was fighting, and Louis 
Quinze heaping up the measure, of iniqui- 
ties which were to bo visited upon the 
heads of his children. Germany was an 
unknown land to what were then called 
the Muses. To all the wits it was a coun- 
try of barbarians, of everlasting mist and 
darkness. Even its own sons despised its 
noble language, its wealthy traditions, 
the poetry and music that lay incipient, 
undeveloped about the roots of the na- 
tional life. A few bald French couplets 
were more precious in the eyes of Teuton 
kings and nobles than all the chaotic tra- 
ditionary riches native to the soil. Other 
stars were beginning to come out in the 
sky, less known and less kuowable, by 
dint of dealing with arts less universal 
than that of Song, when the great Sun of 
German literature rose unthought of out 
of the homely Frankfort street. The poet 
was born in that condition of life which 
the melancholy Jewish thinker prayed 
for. His family was neither rich nor poor. 
They had no nobility to open to them the 
higher heavens of German society, but 
they had civic importance and considera- 
tion, whioh in its way- is almost as good. 
If thus he had little claim upon the notice 



of the great, young Goethe was still in a 
position which attracted the interest of 
many, a perfectly well-known individual, 
whose doings, if remarkable, could not 
fail to attract speedy notice. And from 
the beginning these doings were remark- 
able. Through all the course of his edu- 
cation he stands forth upon the duller 
background of the ordinary youths about 
him — a figure always striking, though 
more from a certain air of jocund great- 
ness and good-humoured superiority to 
everybody around than from more tangible 
causes. At Leipsic, at Strasburg, at home 
in Frankfort, wherever he goes, he is not 
as other lads ; he is already the young 
demi-god among ordinary flesh and blood 
— kind to the lower creatures about him 
with a jovial carelessness, beneficence, and 
sympathy, throwing himself into their 
smaller concerns, yet always looking over 
their heads, finding no equal amid the 
youthful crowd, and requiring none, his 
nature being satisfied with the other re- 
lationship. At Leipsic there was a cer- 
tain Kathchen upon whom he experiment- 
ed with rudiments of love-making, try- 
ing his 'prentice hand in that art of 
producing emotion which was always so 
pleasant to him. At Strasburg or near it 
he found Frederika, one of the sweetest, 
simplest figures in the whole panorama 
of his life, whom he loved after the Goethe 
fashion as long as. was perfectly agreeable 
and useful to him, and left when her day 
was over, sorry for her with a magnan- 
imous sense that to lose him was indeed a 
calamity worth lamenting. His friends 
of the other sex ministered equally to the 
young demi-god's spiritual nourishment. 
One of them was Jung Stilling, whose 
poverty and homeliness the beautiful pop- 
ular Goethe patronized and protected. 
" Sympathizing with Stilling, listening to 
him, and dexterously avoiding any inter- 
ference with his religious faith, he was not 
only enabled to be bis friend, but atao to 
learn quietly and surely the inner nature 
of such men. 1 ' Another friend attracted 
him by a different exposition of human 
nature, as knowing how "to subordinate 
himself with dignity." Thus the splendid 
student began his life's career. With or 
without dignity, all who came in his way 
had to subordinate themselves, to open 
their secret chambers and give up wnat 
enlightenment was in them to the eager 
and insatiable curiosity with which he 
ranged about this little-known world. A 
noble sentiment and a noble power, it may 
be said, and the pursuit of 6uch knowl- 
edge well worth any man's while. Yet 

somehow the process chills the spectator, 
gay as is the soul and brilliant the career 
of this great learner, this Welt-kind, 
apprenticing himself to life* 

His first work of any importance was the 
heroic drama " Gotz von Berlichingen," 
which was also Walter Scott's first work, so 
to speak ; the forerunner of all those Mar- 
mions and Ivanhoes which have long ob- 
literated and superseded their German 
pioneer. '• Gotz was written when Geothe 
was twenty-two, and is perhaps more re- 
markable as being his banner of revolt 
against the poetical canons of his time, 
the outburst of a new national literature 
and new generation of genius — and also 
as the origin of a school of poetry widely 
extended among ourselves, and scarcely 
yet exhausted in force and power — than 
for its own intrinsic merits. These merits 
we cannot think to be great ; though that 
it was wonderful in its daring there can 
be no doubt, and startled the whole Ger- 
man world by a marvellous revelation of 
something of their own, worth caring for, 
which would naturally have the profound- 
est effect upon a people living, as it were, 
out of their own language in the borrowed 
delights of an alien literature, neither con- 
genial nor natural to them. In circum- 
stances so exceptional it may be right to 
characterize this drama as " a work of 
daring power, of vigor, of originality — a 
work to form an epoch in the annals of 
letters ; " or, with a newspaper of the day, 
to describe it as a "piece in which the 
three unities are shamefully outraged, and 
w hie If is neither a tragedy nor a comedy, 
but is, notwithstanding, the most beauti- 
ful, the most captivating monstrosity." 
In these days, however, few English read- 
ers will find " Gotz " either captivating 
or beautiful. It is bustling, rapid, and full 
of activity in its plot and action ; yet it 
strikes us as looking much more like a 
fossil than an animated picture of life. 
One reason of this probably is, that the 
author, with a philosophic coolness most 
characteristic of his nature, makes it his 
aim, not to represent any group of individ- 
ual souls, their passions and motives, but 
to give " a picture of the age." His pic- 
ture of the age, however, is abrupt and 
fragmentary. It has neither the fulness 
and richness of Scott, nor the minute and 
patient detail of Manzoni; although, bo 
far as this effort is concerned, Goethe was 
the parent of both these great writers. 
The drama is a breathless sketch — rapid, 
Btirring, and full of movement, but with- 
out passion, almost without strong emo- 
tion. Gotz himself is but thrown in in 



bold outline upon the canvas, his charac- 
ter very faintly indicated, and his position 
never made quite clear. His mixture of 
patriotism and individualism; his readi- 
ness for a raid at any time ; his loyalty, 
such as it is, to the Emperor, and hostility 
to everybody else, — have not the clearness 
and force which such a picture requires. 
The yacilating contre-heros, again, Weis- 
lingen, is little more than a shadow. The 
manner of his reconciliation to Gotz; 
the way in which he falls in and then out 
of love with Maria ; the perfectly proper 
and pretty behaviour of that young woman 
herself; who, after a brief engagement to 
this captivating traitor, calmly makes up 
her mind to love and wed her next suitor, — 
are neither distinctly explained, nor indued 
with that positive reality of action which 
makes explanation unnecessary. Of itself, 
indeed, the production would be but of small 
account, were it not for the results which 
haTe flowed from it : it was as the opening 
of a door into that romantic and pictur- 
esque world of the middle ages, which has 
since afforded us so many splendid pic- 
tures. A work altogether destitute of 
passion, and made up rather of conven- 
tional drawings of certain typical charac- 
ters than any living study of the men and 
women of the past, it has yet produced 
the brilliant school of fiction in which 
Scott's glowing pictures take the highest 
place, and to which we also owe the 
"Promessi Sposi," and even "Notre 

Goethe's genius opened up this way, and 
gave the first impulse. Perhaps it was 
but the carelessness of his youth pushing 
the door open as he passed, throwing the 
impulse from him at random, in the swing 
and fulness of his progress which made 
the real and immediate result of his first 
effort in sustained composition so much 
leas great and notable than its succeeding 
ones. But the English reader, at least, 
will trace with more interest the germs 
of some of Scott's more animated scenes 
in the hasty narrative of " Got* von Ber- 
lichingen," than will move him towards 
that narrative itself. The trooper's de- 
scription to the wounded Selbitz of the 
distant battle has in it a curious sugges- 
tion, which is worked out with infinitely 
superior force in the prison scene in 
"Ivanhoe," where Rebecca with much 
more eloquence performs a similar service 
for the wounded Saxon. And the abrupt 
introduction of the Vehme Gericht may 
also be identified as having suggested the 
more elaborate study of that mysterious 
and somewhat theatrical secret society 

which is to be found in " Anne of Geier* 
stein." Thus Goethe's first production 
had a fate quite beyond its absolute merits. 
It was not a creation, but it was creative. 
It helped into being perhaps the most bril- 
liant and universally, if temporarily, suc- 
cessful development of literature ever 
known. The philosophical critic, looking 
back upon all the extravagances and exag- 
gerations of that romantic school, may 
doubt whether the world was much the 
better for it. But certainly the world has 
been the better for Scott; and Goethe's 
early outburst of romanticism would seem 
to have been the sign-post which directed 
hisgenius to that hitherto untrodden way. 
Having cast this seed into tho fruitful 
world, which received it eagerly, with cla- 
mours of applause more than suited to the 
occasion — for indeed that world did not 
know that Scott was coming, and Manzoni 
and the rest, and clamoured for "Gotz" 
only, who was scarcely worth its trouble — 
the careless young de mi-god swept on 
upon his wildly-splendid, ungovernable, yet 
always self-controlled way. The bigness 
and sweep of his going gives a certain air 
of wild freedom to his youthful career; 
but it is curious to see how perfect is the 
self- control which exists underneath the 
youthful abandon, and how thoroughly 
Goethe has himself and his passions in 
hand, going just bo far as he thinks fit, and 
no further, either in love or riot. " Go'tz," 
we have said, was his standard of revolt 
against literary canons, unities, and estab- 
lished law of every description, the re- 
straints of which he did not choose to en- 
dure. But the work which followed was 
more real, permanent, and influential than 
" Gotz." We in this generation have par- 
tially forgotten, partially drifted away 
from, all possibility of interest in the 
"Sorrows of Werter;" but its influence 
has not yet died out of the world, and it is 
very nearly impossible to overestimate the 
importance not of itself, but of the stimu- 
lus it gave to the imagination. As 
" Gotz " created the romantic, so did 
"Werter "the sentimental school of litera- 
ture — which was a questionable advant- 
age perhaps, yet acted upon the mind of 
Europe in a quite and prodigious and al- 
most incalculable way. The wild passion 
of the second outburst is as different as 
possible from the calm historical character 
of the former. "Werter" is, as every- 
body knows, the story, told almost entirely 
by himself, of a young man distraught 
with love. It is a mixture of two expe- 
riences in real life — one of them being, 
that' of Goethe himself. who, like Werter,. 



fell in love with a betrothed maiden ; but 
beijg Goethe, and not Werter, mastered 
his love as soon as he had got all the im- 
aginative and mental sweetness possible 
out of it : the other that of a less fortu- 
nate youth, bearing the unlucky name of 
Jerusalem, whom love drove to suicide. 
<xoethe put his friend's end to his own 
story, and the result was such a revelation 
of youthful sentiment in all its foolish- 
ness, weakness, strength, infinitude, and 
absurdity, as perhaps has never been 
made before or since. This is not the 
time to criticise " Werter." Its faults 
have long been apparent to the world, and, 
as ill-luck would have it, these faults are 
the very things which have been so re- 
peated ad nauseam that the parent book 
has to bear the burden of much folly not 
its own. But something more true and 
real lay beneath, in which human nature 
itself found expression. In these melan- 
choly pages, there is not only a somewhat 
maudlin lover working himself up to frenzy, 
but the imagination of a whole race, wild, 
excited, full of questioning and discon- 
tent, tossing itself against those prison 
walls of ordinary life, law, and wellbeing, 
which are to the sober soul a home and 
shelter. Scepticism and clean negation of 
everything unseen and intangible had 
come to their climax in the world; and 
following that climax, or along with 
it, had come its unfailing accompani- 
ment, that profound spiritual disgust, 
weariness, and misery, which, so long as 
human nature retains something spiritual 
in it, must always attend upon infidelity. 
If man is to have no soul, it seems indis- 
pensable either that he should have no 
imagination, or that that imagination 
should go mad and lose itself in a hundred 
fluctuations of misery, from unrest to de- 
spair. " « Werter,* " says Carlyle, " is but 
the cry of that dim-rooted pain, under 
which all thoughtful men of a certain age 
were languishing ; it paints the misery, it 
passionately utters the complaint — and 
heart and voice all over Europe loudly and 
at once responded to it True, it pre- 
scribes no remedy ; for that was a far dif- 
ferent, far harder enterprise, to which 
Other years and a higher culture were re- 
quired; but even this utterance of pain, 
even this little, for the present, is ardently 
grasped at, and with eager sympathy ap- 
propriated in every bosom." 

This description places the work npon a 
higher level than we should ourselves be 
inclined to give it " Werter," so far as it 
is a spiritual cry at all, seems to us more a 
protest against unhappiness than the ex- 

pression of that sublime discontent which 
concerns one's own being in the first place. 
But of all the protests of humanity there 
is none that echoes so widely and strikes 
so deep. Why should not we be happy ? 
What need can there be in heaven or earth 
so absolute, so unanswerable as this? and 
if personal happiness is not to be had, why 
should the lawless and hopeless soul en- 
dure, why should it suffer the happiness 
of others ? Setting aside all religious re- 
straints, the question, it seems to us, is 
simply unanswerable. Philosophy at the 
highest can but encourage and stimulate 
the despairing soul by arguments as to 
what is best and most courageous in his 
circumstances. But there is a great deal 
to be said on both sides of the question ; 
and while suicide is cowardice in one way 
of thinking, it is undoubted courage in an- 
other. Such was, we think, with great 
reason, the opinion of Goethe's age. But 
" Werter " is neither an apology for sui- 
cide nor an argument in its favour. It 
is only a picture of the processes by which 
a weakly-passionate, vacillating, and doubt- • 
ful man is driven by the gradual working 
up, half conscious and voluntary, of his 
own feelings, to adopt that vulgar tour de 
force and easy way of getting out of his 
dilemma. No character has proved itself 
so interesting to genius as that of this 
doubtful being, never quite sure of what 
he would be at, unable to take any de- 
cisive step, plagued by his power of see- 
ing all sides of a question (which is our 
modern fashion), or by incapacity for tak- 
ing stringent measures of any kind either 
to carry out his own wishes or to subdue 
them. What a wonderful descent, how- 
ever, it is in the scale of power, from the sub- 
lime vacillation of Ham'et to the maudlin 
lingering of Werter ! We do not mean to 
compare the two — that would be in every 
way unjust; for the great charm of" Wer- 
ter ■' is simply its youthfulness, its revela- 
tion of an immature mind and exuberant 
imagination — and any comparison be- 
tween it and our great poet's most splen- 
did work would be as ridiculous as inap- 
propriate; but yet under what changed 
conditions, with what curious difference, 
does the great type of hesitation, of doubt, 
of unrest, present itself to the one and the 
other 1 Shakespeare, with that perfection 
of good sense, good taste and feeling, 
which are so largely mingled in the divine 
intuition of genius, has put away love al- 
together from the great intellectual being 
who wavers before the awful question set 
before him — a question which concerns 
principles much more momentous than his 


own personal happiness or misery. It 
seems even profane to imagine the possi- 
bility of Ophelia's frown putting the times 

tre of the world to Goethe is self. Hie 
highest misery is that man can get so 
little out of this world — that his happiness 

oat of joint for Hamlet. But the ques- can be but in dreams — that all is limited 
tion of personal happiness is the one spe- about him — that he never gets what he 
daily involved in " Werter." It is Lotte I wants : whether it be Lotte, whether it be 
who is the sun and centre of his world : ' be the supreme satisfaction of wisdom, 
his philosophy, his musings, nature* itself, whether it be pleasure — - never can he get 
alter according as her brow is bright or what he wants. If for a moment the de- 
cloady; and though all manner of sadnesses! light that he seeks is accorded to him, 
are skilfully worked into the picture to ' how he has to smart for it 1 In his later 
exaggerate the situation and deepen the years the poet himself attempted to show 
gloom, these are rather reflections of feel-] how there' might be a remedy for this in 
ing than independent thought, and as cer- 
tainly ray out from the central fact that 
Werter himself is personally wrecked, as 
do the details of his suicide. With Ham- 
let, on the other hand, personal feelings 
have little to do. We have no reason to 
suppose that disappointed ambition, for in- 
stance, had any share in the heaviness 
which overshadows him from the begin- 
ning. He is sick of the mystery of sorrow 

a voluntary renunciation of everything that 
was not to be procured — a thin sort of 
life-theory not of much general use, we 
fear. But for the present, here is the grand 
point at which his vacillating hero and 
his philosophy generally break off from 
everything Shakespearian. Werter moans 
and maunders till the reader is very sick 
of him ; while the excellent couple, whose 
union makes his misery, stand by wonder- 
tad evil about him, full of forebodings ' ing somewhat, sympathizing a little, their 
which have nothing personal in them, dim ( stolid German steadiness just modified by 
perceptions of undefined wrong, suspicion, their equal German sentimentalism. He 

and fear, as of a spirit walking in the dark, 
not knowing but divining the presence of 
evil companions that make night hideous. 
This dim and sickening consciousness of 
wickedness and falsehood round him has ' 

dees not want to separate that excellent 
Lotte from her excellent Albert ; in short, 
be does not know very well what he wants, 
except to undo all the conditions of life, 
and get to be happy somehow. This i* 

swept the natural delights and miseries '. the aim, the sole end visible or conceiv- 
of youth out of Hamlet's mind at the very able; and this is the great poetic tendency 
outset of his history. His love has been ' of Goethe's genius. In •• Faust," it is 
blown out of sight, out of mind, by that treated with infinitely more splendour ; 
chill air of suspicion and miserable doubt but the central idea is still the same, 
which has killed, so to speak, his personal I The reader of the present day cares very 
existence, his self-regara, his capacity for | little, we presume, for " Werter ; " but that 
enjoyment — even his natural interest in • there are really charming scenes in it, full 
what becomes of him. Even before the of the most delightful sense of both natural 
shock of absolute knowledge which unveils and moral beauty, no one who has ever 
to him the mystery of crime which he sus- ' glanced at the book will deny. Its celeb- 
pected, he has ceased to care much what rity has harmed it in this particular, 
becomes of him. Not one gleam of per- j Had it not been the cause of a kind of 
tonal motive is in all he thinks and says. , literary revolution, the creation of a new 
His sense of undisclosed wrong — of evil; Bchool, the stimulus to a new kind of in- 
preferred to good, and falsehood to truth, i tellectual life, more justice would infal- 
of unreality and lies in everything great libly have been done to the exq unite 
and small that surrounds him, has para- j simple background against which the hero 
lyzed the very sense of self within him. staggers and stumbles. Notwithstanding 
We ought to ask the reader's pardon one recollection of delicious comicality 
once more for placing Hamlet in juxta- which thrusts itself into our memory,— 
position with Werter — but Werter here the climax of that scene of the thunder- 
means Goethe, a more worthy comparison ; storm, in which Lotte, awed and overcome 
and it is interesting to note how utterly j by sublime emotion and admiration, lays 
opposed our Shakespeare's theory is to all her hand upon Werter's and murmurs 
the artistic principles of Goethe's life and " Xlopstock 1 " — we agree with Mr. Lewes 
work. It embodies an aspect of the human in his admiration of " such clear sunny 
nature astray in the worljl which has not pictures, fulness of life, and delicately- 
occurred to his intelligence, great as that managed simplicity." The groups of chil- 
intelligence is. In a Werter," as in u Meis- dren, especially, are lovely, natural, and 
ter," and still greater in " Faust," the cen- unaffected in the highest degree ; and 



Goethe's power of representing them is 
one of the most Attractive features of his 
genius, saying much which we should 
not have otherwise divined both for the 
poet and the man. 

"Werter" took the world by storm. 
It pleased everybody except — for a 
time — Lotte herself and her good bus- 
band, who resented, as they well might, 
the liberty taken with them. Goethe, 
dazzled by the brilliancy of the light he 
flashed upon them, was, or professed to be, 
much astonished by this, and breathed 
forth the deepest penitence. It is difficult, 
however, to believe that a man so able 
could have thought it possible that the 
respectable couple whom he made the 
centre of such a romauce could have taken 
it calmly. He got over this difficulty, 
however, with ease, and thus leaped into 
fame by means of that which is generally 
one of the most private episodes in a 
young man's life — an unsuccessful love; 
his sense of the artistic force of the situa- 
tion mastering even that unpleasant sense 
of personal discomfiture which is apt to 
move the youthful mind under such cir- 
cumstances. Mr. Lewes proves most dis- 
tinctly that his separation from the admir- 
able Lotte was indeed very little of a 
heartbreak to the poet, and that he man- 
aged to enjoy life and a multiplicity of 
other loves even at the terrible moment 
of her marriage. And immediately after, 
another star, called Lili, rose upon the 
firmament, calling forth much the same 
comedy, of rapid love, rapture, wavering, 
and indifference to the affection once at- 
tained, which had marked his youthful 
passions before. He was delivered from 
his last indecisions in respect to this new 
experience by the appearance upon the 
scene of his Duke, Karl August of Saxe- 
Weimar, the little potentate who has 
snatched out of oblivion a certain standing- 
ground among the things that remain, by 
dint of his patronage of the great poets 
of Germany, and the curious aesthetics! 
centre which he managed to establish — 
metropolis of wit and refuge for genius. 
Goethe was but twenty-six when this dis- 
tinction occurred to him. He went with 
his Duke to Saxe- Weimar, falling immedi- 
ately into a friendship with him which 
lasted till death. Nothing could be more 
simple than the life they led; but its 
homeliness, and roughness, and odd mix- 
ture of the fine and the brutal, its dainty 
over-refinements and its romping jollity, 
belonged to the time and the nation, and 
were sanctified, as it were, by being fully 
shared by the prince upon whom the whole 

circle depended. The curious royal riot 
of the period which ensued, the grand- 
ducal entertainments, the open-air play- 
actings, the celebrations of everybody's 
birthday, the odes, the masks, the illiumi na- 
tions, crackers, and the music, — are they 
not all written in the book of Mr. Lewes ? 
The members of the little court were 
almost all young, let it be said ; and the 
pranks they played, and the high-jinks they 
executed, are the drollest interruption to a 
serious story. Everything was there that 
the imagination could desire to enrich the 
rollicking life of the young prince and the 
young poet ; and, on the whole, there are 
worse things than the nonsense into which 
they plunged royally, though it was some- 
times distinguished by tricks as stupid as 
if they had been a couple of foolish young 
Guardsmen. Here, too, Goethe found an- 
other love, in some respects the most 
serious relation of his life, in the person 
of the Frau von Stein, one of the high 
well-born ladies of the little court, — a 
wife and a mother, to be sure, but that was 
a subject of indifference at the time; and«. 
we presume a believer in human nature 
may be allowed to think their connection, 
though most intimate and tender, an inno- 
cent one. At least it is unnecessary to 
discuss it here ; for in those days morality, 
in the ordinary acceptance of the word, 
had scarcely any existence. To this lady 
Goethe remained entirely devoted for ten 
years of his life. He consulted her about 
everything, saw her and wrote to her 
daily, loved her as much apparently as he 
was capable of loving, and was loved by 
her; and though Mr. Lewes, in his capac- 
ity of prophet to Goethe, overwhelms 
this poor woman with reproaches for hav- 
ing shown a little feeling when she, too, 
in her turn, was cast aside, yet that will 
be the least of her faults to the reader, 
who probably will feel that a woman who 
has been worshipped for ten years may 
naturally be expected to feel a certain 
pained surprise when the worship is with- 
drawn. Mr. Lewes has no mercy for the 
Frau von Stein. She was forty-five at the 
end of her reign, and ought to have made 
her lover a curtsey and retired gracefully, 
as is the best policy of women ; or perhaps, 
better still, should have interested her- 
self in finding a successor to her own 
place in the demi-god's affections. On the 
contrary, she was so extremely unreason- 
able as to be angry and wounded by his 
desertion ! However, she was the centre 
of his life during his earlier career at 
Weimar, before the visit to Italy which, 
made another epoch in it. During this 



time he wrote several of his plays, and at 
least began the composition of " Meister." 
Of - Iphigmia," « Tasso," and the rest, 
space will not permit as to treat. These 
are not the works which separate Goethe 
from other men ; and ** Faust " had yet to 
be written and u Meister" completed — 
the great works of his life. 

We are so profoundly aware of coming 
at a disadvantage after the elaborate and 
complete comments of such writers as 
Cariyle, Lewes, and a host of others, that 
we feel oar courage waver as we approach 
the greatest productions of Goethe's ge- 
nius. But for the fact, indeed, that no 
list of great poets in the century which is 
past could be in the least possible without 
including the author of "Faust," we 
should have shrunk altogether from the 
task. Goethe culminates in this great 
poem, which is as much the epitome of his 
genius as the " Divina Commedia " is of 
the genius of Dante. The story is too well 
known to require any description. It is 
founded upon one of the legends which has 
taken deepest hold of the popular mind, 
especially in Germany; and with all its 
mystic meanings, its wild mixture of 
diablerie, and its profound intellectualism, 
no subject can be supposed more likely to 
tempt the imagination of Goethe or to 
riret the attention of his countrymen. 
The whole fable is peculiarly national. No 
other country has ever given so exalted a 
place to the philosopher, or been so willing 
to regard him as the possible first actor in 
a great drama ; nowhere else have such 
lofty pretensions of mind been put forth, 
and nowhere else is such rough horse-play 
practicable, or such wildly grotesque super- 
stitions. The rude life of the common 
people, unveiled by any poetic graces — 
the utter separation of the soul living in 
thought in the very midst of that teeming 
vulgar existence which gives so character- 
istic and striking a beginning to the story — 
is thoroughly Teutonic. Such a contrast 
elsewhere might have appeared over- 
strained, but in Germany it is natural. 
And only in Germany could the wild fan- 
tastic dream of the Brocken and its amuse- 
ments, and the coarse horrors of the witch's 
kitchen, have been possible to the imagina- 
tion. The drinking-bout in the wine-cellar 
might perhaps be equalled in other coun- 
tries; out we doubt if any but a German 
poet would have ventured ou so brutally 
realistic a picture, or permitted the boors 
to stand forth before us in all their be- 
sotted stupidity without even a gleam of 
wit to make them pardonable. The sub- 
ject was thus adapted in an extraordinary 

degree both to the poet and his audience. 
In England its splendid power would no 
doubt sooner or later have forced it into 
notice, but its success could never have 
been national. Even now, we believe, 
when it comes to them with the sanction 
of generations, the first effect of " Faust " 
upon the simple mind is much more an im- 
pression of disgust than of enthusiasm. 
We have been dragged into admiration by 
dint of the effusive and loudly-proclaimed 
delight of those we have looked up to as 
our guides in literature. But in Germany 
no such mediation was ever necessary. 
Tne work at once found understanding 
and appreciation ; and it comes to us with 
this' vast mechanical advantage, so to 
speak — the advantage of having been re- 
ceived into the permanent picture-gallery 
of the world by at least one unanimous 

The work itself, when we come to regard 
it more closely, is like the old Werter-cry, 
repeated in a deeper, vaster, more splendid 
tone. It is one of the most confusing and 
bewildering of all great poems. It satis- 
fies the reader who looks no further by its 
strange and wildly tragic story, keep- 
ing its meaning safe for those who seek 
it. But to those who seek that mean- 
ing most anxiously, it appears a grand 
phantasmagoria wilfully broken, in which 
great gleams of sudden light are every- 
where flanked by fantastic storm-clouds 
drifting up from some unknown sea, from 
some abyss of mystic vapour full of the 
most bewildering shapes and sounds of 
wonder. "The scenes are mere magic- 
lantern pictures," says Coleridge, who in 
his own dreamy soul ought to have been 
able, one would have thought, to compre- 
hend his brother poet ; and there is a cer- 
tain reality in the image, however false its 
application may be. Scenes from a magic- 
lantern — with, however, the great living 
world for the curtain on which to display 
them, and a greater unseen world with all 
its mystic forces crowding in to fill up the 
intervals, framing every picture with roll- 
ing clouds of wonder, with huge shadows 
visionary and fantastic, yet terrible in 
their suggestiveness. Through the whole 
drama this sense of blended reality and 
unreality, this phantasmagoric character, 
possesses the spectator. He does not read, 
but looks on while he is carried from the 
bright soft scenes of outdoor life, from the 
chamber of the student, from the more 
sacred chamber of the girl — up and away 
into the mountain mists, where that wild, 
senseless, hopeless revel is going on among 
the clouds, vainer than humanity at its 



vainest, sickening and terrible'; then down 
again with a swoop, fate-driven, to the 
deeper phantasmagoria below, where all 
the sky and lights are changed, and woe 
has succeeded bliss, and the brief human 
dream of thoughtless love and delight has 
ended in death and murder and madness. 
Dreams all ? with only that gigantic grasp 
of sorrow, pain unendurable, to distinguish 
the dream which is clothed in flesh and 
blood from that which is mere air and 

What does it all mean ? It means that 
in all the earth and all the air there is 
nothing that can satisfy the wandering, 
yearning, passionate soul, which is a stran- 
ger in this world and a sojourner like its 
fathers. Let this being throw every re- 
straint aside ; let him try knowledge 
at any cost; pleasure at any cost; let 
him adventure himself on the most aw- 
ful of penalties in wild pursuit of some- 
thing to satisfy him, scorning safety, com- 
fort, virtue, everything that might be 
supposed to stand between him and enjoy- 
ment — and, lo ! his fate is no better than 
that of the dullest slave: he has but a 
darker climax of misery, a deeper depth of 
pain, in proportion to the violence of his 
struggle. Who will show him any good ? 
He seeks it in lofty ways, and in vile ; in 
the flesh, in the spirit, in some wild inter- 
mediate region where fantastic delusions 
reign, and all is as wildly false as the dis- 
appointment is bitterly true. Never was a 
• more tremendous moral worked out for our 
instruction ; but the object of the poet is 
not moral. He cares as little for morality 
as he does for probability, or the unities of 
art, or any other conventional thing. When 
Faust sets forth upon his wild journey, it 
is even with no belief in the possibility of 
that satisfaction for which he scornfully 
risks his soul, indifferent to the danger. In 
ail he does and wishes there is the constant 
presence of this scornful despair, this want 
of all faith and real expectation. We feel 
that he accepts the devil's bargain, and 
sets out with him infinitely more for the 
excitement's sake, and to escape from the 
gnawing sense of his personal failure, than 
with any real belief that Mephistopheles 
can help him. His arbitrary and arrogant 
demand of the demon's services to procure 
him Mirgaret on the spot, as he might 
have demanded a flower, betrays this half- 
savage, half-contemptuous scorn of hope- 
lessness. For Faust at that moment has 
no thought of Margaret in the deeper way 
of love, which surprises him afterward) 
when his soul is brought in contact with 
the fresh and frank girlish being, so simple, 

true, and tender, whose sudden and un- 
thought-of touch staggers him for a mo- 
ment in his wild career. Here one gleam 
of human reality, clear as the daylight, 
simple and penetrating as Nature herself, 
alights momentarily upon the wanderer, 
but is obscured by the wild clouds that 
swallow him once again, the wild search to 
which he is driven by the fever within hiin 
and the fever without, his weird companion 
and his hungering, despairing soul. This, 
to our thinking, is the very heart and soul 
of the wonderful drama. The story em- 
bodies the tragedy of Gretcheu, but to 
Faust it is but an incident in his awful 
history, an incident summing up, indeed, 
its inevitable and unchangeable character, 
its struggle of life and death betweeu the 
true and the false, between the actual and 
the unseen, and its desperate attempt to 
snatch some supreme flower of satisfaction 
out of that universal chaos — if not of the 
soul, then of the senses — anything, any- 
thing 1 which will make him say to the 
passing moment, "Linger, thou art so 
fair ! " If we could imagine the mournful 
writer of £colesiaste3 — be he Solomon, be 
he some other heart-stricken sage — roused 
up into a sudden tragic passion of desire, 
making one last frantic effort to find some- 
thing which has not already been', some- 
thing out of the sickening routine of 
everyday disappointment, there are no oth- 
er garments in which we could clothe him 
than those of this eager but unhoping 
spirit, the scornful, passionate, despairiug 
Faust, who is as contemptuous of the risk 
of his soul as he is of the signing in blood 
of the conventional compact. And here it 
must be added that, if any gentle reader 
retains a lingering wish to be able to 
approve of Faust, or to find some moral 
excellence struggling through his darkness, 
that fond imagination had better at once 
be dismissed from the mind. No thought 
of morality is in the whole ; on the con- 
trary, its bonds are voluntarily and con- 
sciously laid aside in order that the last 
experiment may be tried without any ob- 
stacle; and this even the most didactio 
mind will recognize as a kind of necessity. 
Faust, accordingly, is not a being to excite 
any moral sympathy ; he is not a good mau 
captive to error, or led away by tempta- 
tions of the devil — or even struggling 
against the forces of evil which are massed 
and grouped around him. Oa the con- 
trary, he goes out to meet them. He in- 
spects them with an eager scrutiny, and 
makes a distinct mental effort to find in 
them, if not some good, yet soma pleasure, 
— a fact which naturally increases tenfold 



the reality of his disgust and sickening 
perception of the everlasting meanness 
and pettiness of that wild riot which is .so 
foil of seeming abandon, bat yet so slavish 
in its fantastical restraints. The only mo- 
ment at which the man is hashed oat of 
his wild fever is when the touch of love 
has arrested him — when compunction 
seizes him — when his wild course is 
stopped for the moment, and a thought of 
the rain be may bring upon the creature 
he loves daunts him in the delirious fear* 
lessness Which up to this moment has been 
his condition. The scene in the cave, for 
which Mr. Lewes curiously enough declares 
he can find no reason, seems to us the one 
point where the storm-driven spirit touches 
earth, before all the powers of hell tighten 
upon him that grasp which he scorns and 
loathes, but can not any longer shake off. 
Love and Nature have momentarily turned 
him back into a man. " Shall I not feel 
her pangs — her ruin ? " he cries. " Must 
I drag ber and her peace into the dust V " 
It is the sudden soft murmur of the brook 
amid the horrors of the mariner's dream — 
the sudden break of light in the sky, show- 
ing still in the midst of the tempest a pos- 
sibility of calm. Short-lived possibility — 
impracticable hope 1 for fate is not to be 
cheated, nor the demon, nor those wild 
impulses which give both fate and demon 
their power. 

The character of Mepbistopheles is per- 
haps the most wonderful creation in all 
fiction. He is not a man in the guise of a 
demon, like Milton's magnificent Satan, 
bat a true devil, without one mitigating 
feature, one compunction, one feeling, good 
or bad. From the time that he appears in 
the presence of the Lord, in a scene which 
we most say is not so shocking to our feel- 
ings of reverence as it seems to have been 
in many cases, until the last word of the 
drama, which he snatches at to destroy if 
possible the one hope of the dying girl and 
her miserable destroyer, the completeness 
of his heartless, soulless, devilish nature is 
neTer disturbed by any inopportune break- 
ing in of humanity. The mocking unbelief 
which chuckles in the very presence of 
divinity over its own changeless, emotion- 
less estimate of things human, is a more 
original conception than that of the 
haughty, remorseful demons who still re- 
member their high estate, and in the very 
height of their pride are conscious of hav- 
ing fallen. Mepbistopheles, however, who 
still now and then likes to see Der Alte, 
and fiuds it good of so great a Lord to bo 
civil to the Devil, is such an inconceivable 
mixture of cold-blooded impudence and 

mockery as no human imagination over 
before dreamt of. And there is an infinite 
subtle power in the way in which this be- 
ing, in the YQry height of his unmitigated, 
unimpressionable intellectualism, is yet 
bound by the most fantastic cantrips of 
diablerie which fascinates the spectator. 
He who could ieer when he came out of 
the presence of God, is yet held fast by 
the pentagram on the floor as if he were 
some sorcerer's familiar; and has to be 
thrice bidden to enter, and to go through 
various other contemptible formulas with a 
mixture of absolute rigmarole in his super- 
natural cleverness which betrays a mock- 
ery still more profound than the mockery 
of the devil — the saturnine laugh within 
a laugh of the man who can create and 
despise the very demon who leads him to 
perdition. We do not know of anything 
that can be put beside this extraordinary* 
creation of genius. Shakespeare was at 
once too human and too divine — too pro- 
foundly moral in his nature — to have been 
capable of it. He never could have 
brought himself to sneer at the Sneerer, 
and to hold up to everlasting mockery * 
only, the worst and strangest and most . 
pitiful impersonation of evil which ever 
occurred to genius. Other poets have ele- 
vated the Devil into a splendid embodi- 
ment of despair — they have hated him, 
contemned, even in a tender turn of tbo 
<jreat poet's nature have pitied, the hope- 
less One ; but only Goethe has made him 
at once powerful and ridiculous, victorious 
and paltry — the grotesque slave of an 
angle, as well as the remorseless master of 
the perishing soul. 

It is in Margaret, however, that the mind 
of the reader, baffled and bewildered by 
all these mysteries, finds rest and refresh- 
ment and food for his sympathies. She is 
placed so beautifully on the canvas, and 
surrounded with such a bewitching atmos- 
phere of song — and her presence is, bo- 
sides, such an intense relief from the doom 
and tumult of the other scenes — that it 
is almost impossible for us to allow that 
her character is the least truly conceived,, 
and the least perfect in execution. This is 
so far natural that the use of woman in 
poetry is chiefly conventional, or rather 
typical, and that so long as she represents 
a certain ideal of beauty, love, and inno- 
cence, individualism is not required for 
her. She is the light in the picture, a thing 
much more straightforward and free from 
complication than the darkness. We fear 
that in saying this we will shock many 
readers to whom Margaret is the true at- 
traction of " Faust." let, nevertheless, we 



do not doubt that they will, to a certain 
extent at least, agree with us when they 
have looked a little closer into her* She is 
intended, it is evident, to be extremely 
young — younger even than the ordinarily 
imagined age of girlish perfection — and 
perfectly simple, though rapidly developed 
under the magic of Faust's presence, ad- 
miration, and love. But perhaps, more 
from the fault of the age than the poet, 
this gentle creature is made so purely su- 
perficial as to yield at once to tier lover 
without even a thought of the pollution 
involved — and that after she has been dis- 
coursing him in the garden scene with that 
wonderful mixture of gravity, piety, and 
bewildered girlish simplicity about his re- 
ligion. To be sure, this may be said to be 
the effect of the spiritual power of Mephis- 
topheles ; but it is by no means one of the 
least powerful points in the story that Me- 

Shistopheles has no power whatever on 
largaret. He steals the jewels for her, 
and manages for Faust a visit to her empty 
chamber — but he does no more. He can- 
not take the lover there when Margaret is 
within. He can neither force her innocent 
soul into sin, nor even throw her into a 
questionable position. Her downfall ha3 
to be left to herself; but this very down- 
fall is at variauce with her character. She 
who has but a moment before been full of 
sweet and anxious though confused thought 
about her lover's faith — who has shown 
such quick aud true spiritual perception as 
regards Mephistopheles — and who a little 
after sings to the Mother of Sorrows a 
hymn so full of the lof.iest patho3 — con- 
sents with the careless readiuess of a wan- 
ton to the first proposal of evil. This is a 
mistake which would have been fatal had 
the drama been one founded upon the or- 
dinary principles of art. A3 it is, how- 
ever, the wild rush of the phantoms, who 
are always ready to flood the scene, and 
hurry it on from one chapter to another, 
prevents us from dwelling upou the incred- 
ible rapidity of the action at this the cen- 
tral point of the story. Never was figure 
more pathetic than that of poor Margaret 
afterwards, though, indeed, her aspect up 
to the crowning anguish of the prison 
scene is that of an innocent martyr rather 
than of a Magdalen. " My heart is sore, 
my peace is gone," she sings in her early 
despondency before evil has come nigh 
her. But it is with a deeper tragic anguish 
that her song is full when she addresses 
the Mother of Tear3 — 

«• Wheresoe'er I go, 
What woe. what woe! what woe 

Is in my bosom aching! 
When to my room I creep, 
I weepl I weep! I weep! 

My heart is breaking." 

She is the victim whom man and the 
devil, the struggling mind and the malign 
spirit, require to give emphasis to their 
conflict with all the powers of heaven and 
all the laws of earth. Without this exam- 
ple of their reckless progress over the very 
neck of humauity, indifferent how and 
where their crushing footsteps fall, the im- 
pression made upon the audieuce would 
have been less immense ; and the tragedy 
of Margaret brings the drama into a re- 
gion accessible to those who have neither 
iu sight nor patience enough to follow that 
unending tragedy of " Faust," which may, 
for aught we know, be going on still in 
ever new and new experiment, new clutch- 
es at those apples of Sodom which turn to 
ashes in the mouth. 

We need not add that the "Faust" 
tragedy does go on to another weird scene, 
into which we shall not attempt to follow 
the poet. The worshippers of Goethe will 
be led by their cultus into these obscure 
shades of mystic poesy ; but to us it is im- 
possible to go with them, neither would 
the reader thank us for endeavouring to 
open to him a bewildering region where 
even Mr. Carlyle's enthusiasm could induce 
few to follow. One of the many proofs 
that universal and sovereign poetry must 
confine itself within the limits of common 
humau perception and feeling, lies in the 
fact that the great fable of " Faust " re- 
solves itself, in reality, with by far the 
greater majority of readers, into .the story 
of Margaret. In her — in her simplicity 
and naturalness, and in the heartrending 
pathos of her woe — the human interest 
centres. It is immaterial to the most of 
us whether the philosopher ever finds or 
not the mouthful of content for which he 
risks heaven and hell; but the weeping 
maiden placing those (lowers before the 
shrine, appealing to the Mother of Sarrowa 
— the broken heart distraught » with mis- 
ery—never can be indifferent to ua. The 
simplest soul weeps over her, and the 
greatest. What is Helena to us or any 
other prehistoric witch? — but Gretchen 
lays the claim of inalienable human com- 
passion and sympathy upon all our 
thoughts. «wr* no :•* 

"Wilhelm Meister" is in evevj way**, 
less comprehensible, less definable work, 
than the great poem which has made 
Goethe*s name for ever illustrious. The 
best and soundest critics, aud those who 



are most deeply acquainted with the gen- 
ius of Goethe, speak with a concealed be- 
wilderment which is not less, though it is 
more amnsin*, than that of the casual 
reader. Mr. Lewes himself is driven to 
beseech as to relinquish any attempt to 
discover the idea of the work, and to 
*• stand fast by history," which would be 
very reasonable if it were simply a history 
of Meister which we were contemplating. 
" The first six books — beyond all compar- 
ison the best and most important — were 
written," says Mr. Lewes, "before the 
journey to Italy : they were written dur- 
ing the active theatrical period when 
Goethe was manager, poet, and actor. 
The contents of these books point very 
clearly to his intention of representing in 
them the whole nature, aims, and art of 
the comedian ; and in a letter to Merck he 
expressly states that it is his intention to 
portray the actor's life. Whether at the 
same time he meant the actor's life to be 
symbolical, cannot be positively deter- 
mined. That may or may not have been 
a secondary intention. The primary in- 
tention is very clear." This statement we 
should receive, we repeat, as perfectly sat- 
isfactory, had the novel been anything but 
the " Apprenticeship of Wilhelm Meister." 
The life of the comedian is indeed perfect- 
ly clear, and full of genius. Though the 
incidents are scanty, and though -the tale 
goes on in that leisurely way which prom- 
ises eternal duration, there is quite enough 
in it to justify its existence, were we not 
mystified at the beginning by an intima- 
tion of some hidden thread of meaning 
which no intellect yet has' been clear 
enough to seize. " The work is one of the 
most invaluable productions," Goethe says 
to Eckermann ; " I myself can scarcely be 
said to have the key to it." It was the 
work of nearly twenty years of his life, 
was given to the world with vast solemni- 
ty, and has been accepted ever since its 
publication as an admirable parable of the 
highest class — if we only 'could divine 
what it meant. We confess frankly that 
the meaning which is so very hard to dis- 
cover seems to us scarcely worth the trou- 
ble. The Goethe-idolater who reads it 
over and over will doubtless be rewarded 
for his pains ; but the man who is not a 
worshipper, to begin with, will probably 
never return to this perplexing book. 
** l " ^ti Carlyle we can glean not much 
-Jthei .a the way of absolute enlighten- 
ment than an enthusiastic commendation 
of the "temper of mind" — that is, the 
universal calm, impartiality, and largeness 
of apprehension displayed in the work — 


a temper which permits the most diverse 
characters to display themselves, each 
" having justice done " to him, each living 
" freely in his own element, in his proper 
form." This is the same quality which Mr. 
Lewes defends from the charge of immor- 
ality, by defining it as " a complete absence 
of all moral verdict on the part of the au- 
thor." But both critics take refuge finally 
in that personal plea which seldom betok- 
ens much strength of argument. Goethe 
did it, therefore it must be great. " ( Meis- 
ter' is the mature product of the first 
genius of our times, and must, one would 
think, be different in various respects from 
the immature products of geniuses who 
are far from the fir it, and whose works 
spring from the brain in as many weeks as 
Goethe's cost him years." This is a dan- 
gerous kind of certainty. 

The second part of " Wilhelm Meister " 
— his Wanderjahre or Travels, as it is 
called in the English version — is still 
more profoundly bewildering. The pro- 
cessions of misty figures that wind in end- 
less obscurity through it, defy at once the 
intellect and the memory — and the mys- 
terious education which goes on in the 
"pedagogic Province" under the super- 
intendence of " the Chief of the Three," 
reaches to a height of mysticism quite be- 
yond our reach. Such knowledge is too 
high for us. Yet there are lovely pictures 
in this wildest and strangest little volume ; 
and a kind of ineffable unmeaningness, as 
of a purpose which has quite overshot its 
mark, attracts us somehow to the quaint, 
beautiful picture of the Holy Family iu 
the first four or five chapters. We have 
not the remotest idea what it means, and 
would much rather not have it explained 
to us ; but it is like a picture of Van Eyck, 
or some other early Teutonic master — 
a group of beings half celestial, half peas- 
ant, like nothing earthly, yet full of the 
sweetness of the homely Boil. We have 
no reason whatever to give for this caprice 
of admiration ; and it may be, for aught 
we know, rather a disgrace to us than 
otherwise ; but we confess that in all 
" Meister " this curious fantastic picture is 
the only one which has taken deep hold of 
our thoughts, or in the least touched our 

However, to return to the one irrefraga- 
ble base of argument : Goethe wrote this 
book, and therefore it must have had a 
great deal of meaning in it. He lingered 
over it, in some curious twist of his great 
intellect, more than he did over any other 
work. " Faust " was a trifle in comparison 
with what " Meister " oost him. That this 



is bat another instance of the manifold 
mistakes of genius, and of the special per- 
versity of this genius, we might venture 
to say, were the poet any one but Goethe, 
who has the special privilege of possessing 
etill a body-guard ready to repel any at- 
tack. But that the demi-god bad this per- 
versity is evident enough. When we read 
that in Rome his whole mind was occupied 
with study of the structure of plants — 
an investigation which surely would have 
been more appropriate to the Gartenhaus 
at Weimar — and that during the French 
campaign in which he accompanied his 
Duke, he was absorbed in a theory of 
colours — the reader cannot but feel that 
either a wilful abstraction of his great fac- 
ulties from the more important matters 
under his eye, or an almost childish way- 
wardness of imagination, must have been 
the cause of such strange aberration. A 
small man who had been seized by such 
fantastic philosophies would either have 
concealed them sedulously, or would have 
been characterized, stnza compliment^ as a 
fool. But it was part of the great 
Goethe's instinct to follow his own intui- 
tions wherever they led him, without 
shame or self-explanation. 

We need not dwell upon such produc- 
tions as the " Elective Affinities," the 
Wahloenoandtschqften — the monument of 
a last love, which seized him when he was 
sixty, and at length married, for a pretty 
girl in her teens, who was sent back to 
school by way of putting an end to the 
uncomfortable romance. This story re- 
lates how a husband and wife fell in love 
with their two visitors, and all the deli- 
cate conflict of sentiment that, ensued as 
to whether the four lovers were to be 
made happy or not. Mr. Lewes ingen- 
iously assures us that, " taking life as it is, 
not as it ought to be, this situation may 
be considered as terribly true, and, 
although tragic, by no means immoral " — 
an opinion, however, so little agreed in by 
the English public at least that the •• Wahl- 
verwandtschaften " is the only important 
one of Goethe's works which remains un- 
translated. We have said that by this 
time Goethe was at last married, an event 
which did not occur till nearly twenty 
years after the beginning of his connection 
with Christiane Vulpius, the mother of his 
children, who only then^became his wife. 
The incident is not so pleasant that we 
should dwell upon it ; but it is curious as 
illustrating the often-illustrated theory of 
the weight of bondage which men avow- 
edly dreading the yoke of marriage bring 
upon themselves by other connections. 

Goethe, who had taken the bloom off so 
many young existences, had in his old age 
to groan under the bond, unlegalized, bu- 
strong as habit and his own weakness 
made it, to a coarse and intemperate comt 
panion, whom he could neither mend nor 
get free from. He married her finally, 
which was well, but did not alter the char- 
acter of his sufferings, in which, recollect- 
ing the experiences of his past life, the 
vindictive reader will feel a certain satis- 
faction as of poetic justice. Certainly, un- 
less the rules of morals and of feeling are 
abrogated by a man's greatness, which we 
do not hold to be the case, Goethe richly 
deserved to have a fat and intemperate 
termagant saddled upon him m the latter 
part of his life. 

That life ended most tranquilly, among 
such honours as have fallen to few men. 
He lived so long that his fame went to the 
ends of the earth, and brought him uni- 
versal worship. From all the different 
points of the compass idolaters came to 
bow before his shrine ; and these not com- 
mon idolaters. In intellectual Germany he 
ruled supreme, though he was not a politi- 
cal or patriotic German, and took but 
little interest in the national cause. His 
indifference, indeed, to public events must 
have reached the length of affectation, as 
we find him in August 1830 commenting 
upon " the eruptiou of the volcano " in 
Paris, meaning not the Revolution, news 
of which had just arrived, but a discus- 
sion in the Academy between Cuvier and 
Geoffrey St. Hilaire I — surely a ridiculous 
piece of pretence, which it is impossible 
to account for otherwise than by the per- 
versity already referred to, or such a petty 
determination to be superior as it is pain- 
ful to connect with the memory of a great 
man. His way to the grave was as pleasant, 
as gradual, as softly carpeted with mosses 
and flowers, as ever beguiled human 
footstep onward. Weimar became famous 
through the world by his means. It was 
no longer known as a little ducal Reside nz, 
or the capital of a tiny province, but as 
the temple in w,hich was adored the great- 
est poet of his age. There, surrounded 
by his friends and children, he died. His 
companions were mostly gone before him. 
Duke and duchess and brother poet had 
been swept away into the unseeu, and an- 
other generation had taken their place ; 
but it was a generation which, from their 
earliest breath, had been trained to adore 
Goethe. He was eighty-two when the 
end came. He died an ideal death, with 
as small an amount of suffering as was in- 
evitable, and with no consciousness of the 



approaching conclusion. The last words 
he uttered in this world were "More 
light ! " — words most touchingly symbol- 
ical, though he meant it not. His life had 
been exceptionally prosperous, calm, and 
without anxiety. All he had wished for 
had fallen into his hands, and a long and 
mellow evening of repose had followed 
upon the bright and busy and lingering 

Thus lived and laboured and died a man 
who has, perhaps, been classed at more 
widely different estimations than any 
other man of his time. If we cannot al- 
low, with Carlyle, that he and the first 
Napoleon were the two greatest men of 
their day, it must at least be conceded by 
the least willing that his influence spread 
more widely, and we may say, has lasted 
longer, than that of any other modern 

member of the great brotherhood of poets. 
He did much, and he suggested much. He 
set minds as great as his own going with a 
touch of his finger. And he was infinitely 
fortunate in catching exactly the right 
moment and the right subject to move the 
world withal. His fame and his nature 
were both profoundly national ; and 
though his patriotism was dull, he had 
perhaps more to do than any of his con- 
temporaries with the creation of that na- 
tional sentiment without which no country 
can ever be great. In every way, there- 
fore, the effeots which he meant to produce 
were increased and magnified by effeots 
which he did not mean to produce — re- 
flections and impulses which he threw off 
almost without knowing. There can bp 
no better applause given to human great- 

Tra progress of the struggle between the Pros- 
m Government and the Feudal ^barty is 
watched with hardly less anxiety is Southern 
Germany than in the North. It appears to be 
felt very distinctly that there are interests much 
higher than those of the six provinces enumer- 
ated in the Kreis Reform Act, which depend 
upon the issue of this new constitutional contest. 
The South German Liberals, who form no incon- 
siderable section of the great majority devoted 
to the cause of German unity in the Imperial 
Diet, have to contend at home with the unnat- 
ural combination of extreme Radicals and Ultra- 
montanes, who are united in- favour of the 
" Parttcularist " policy which the war has left 
at a discouDt. But the most powerful argument 
of the Liberals in pressing the absorption of 
their States into the Empire has hitherto been 
that the unity of Germany must carry her free- 
dom with it; and, in short, that the predomi- 
nance of Prussia, however selfish it may appear, 
is always favourable to the development of popu- 
lar rights in the minor States. It would be a 
death-blow to this were the Junker party of the 
northern Iringdom to triumph in their opposi- 

tion to the liberal measure lately before them. 
Suoh a result would inevitably serve to throw 
the larger part of the southern reformers, who 
are at heart opposed to all feudal privileges, 
into the hands of the Radicals. Moreover, if 
the Prussian Liberals were thrown overboard 
by the Royal Administration, and were in con- 
sequence forced to accept the defeat of the re- 
form project, it would make a serious breach 
between those of their number who sit in the 
Diet and the southern members with whom they 
are accustomed to act. In fact, a viotory won 
by the Junkers of the six provinces would be 
felt as a defeat not only by their local opponents, 
but by the Liberal party throughout the Em- 
pire. And it is, therefore, not surprising that 
Prince Bismarck's return from the rest which 
was lately pressed upon him as it were by the 
national voice, is now demanded loudly by the 
same organs of public opinion which insisted on 
the necessity of his stay at Varzin until some 
serious foreign oompiioation — for no such home 
difficulty was foreseen by them — should arise 
to recall him from his well-earned retirement. 

Pall Mall Gazette. 







How the castle of "Nigen-Strelitz was haunted. — 
What a Kodump is. — How his Serene Highness 
and his sister the Princess Christel journeyed 
through his territory. — How Sachtleben's Wal- 
lach was borrowed for the occasion, and the valet 
Rand suggested to his Highness to build a Belvi- 
dere. —The Grand Duke, with one glance out of 

one eye, sets in progress a national work. — A new 

Salace must be built at Nigen-Braumborg; and it 
i built accordingly. — Who His Serene Highness 

aotually was. 

In the year 1700, and something over, 
in the evening of a fine day in May, 
the Grand Duke of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, 
Adolf Friedrich, the fourth of his name, 
was sitting with his sister, the Princess 
Christel, in his castle at Nigen-Strelitz. 
They had been telling each other ghost 
stories, stupid things which nobody would 
believe to be true if they had not really 
happened, and both were in a fine state 
of terror, but his Serene Highness the 
most so. 

Suddenly there came to their ears, 
through the soft spring twilight, across the 
lake, a sound, a fearful sound, such a sound 
as a very malicious ghost might utter, if 
it wanted to frighten some poor mortal 
out of his wits. The prolonged and 
melancholy sound echoed over the whole 
region, and the two Serene Highnesses 
could not tell whether it came from the 
air above, or from the earth beneath. It 
was all one, it was equally frightful. The 
Grand Duke, Adolf Friedrich, trembled 
with fear ; but the Princess Christel, who 
was a very resolute person, had sufficient 
presence of mind $o seize a little silver 
bell and ring it violently. Why she did it 
she could not have explained ; but human 
beings came to her relief. The valet, 
Hand, and the chamberlain, von Knuppels- 
dorp, hastily entered the room, inquiring 
what was the matter and what was wanted. 
The two Highnesses scarcely knew what 
to say, for of course it must be a ghost, 
and who knows how to deal with a ghost ? 
Princess Christel, however, had so much 
discretion that she motioned them to a 
couple of seats ; and so the four sat there, 

fazing in silence at each other, and nobody 
new what was really the matter, only 
they could Bee the Grand Duke trembling. 
All at once the sound came again, and as 
the prolonged wail echoed over Nigen- 
Strelitz, Adolf Friedrich the Fourth clapped 
his hands over his Grand Ducal ears, and 
cried, " There it is again I " 

The chamberlain von Kniippelsdorp took 
the words from the lips of the valet, Kand, 

[Entered aooording to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by Littell & Gay, in the Office of the Librarian 

' "^ashi 

according to Mecklenburg etiquette, and 
said : 

" Serene Highness, that is the Ro- 
dump." * 

And the Princess Christel, with great 
presence of mind, inquired if that were a 
new kind of ghost. 

And the chamberlain replied it was 
not a ghost at all, it was a bird which 
amused itself occasionally by thrusting 
its bill into the swamp and screaming in 
order to frighten people. 

Whether he was in the right or not I 
do not know; but he might have been 
accurately informed, for he was one of the 
huntsmen. The Grand Duke did not be- 
lieve him, and, after a little reflection, he 
said : " All good spirits praise the Lord I 
Rand, you will sleep in my cabinet to- 
night." Then he retired. 

Princess Christel sat a little longer with 
the chamberlain, discussing the question 
of what means of protection against the 
ghost she should employ that night, and 
whether she should sleep alone or not; for 
her maid of honor, Eorlin Soltmaun, was 
a superstitious old goose ; and she came to 
the conclusion to invite one of the house- 
maids, Wendula Steinhagen, to be her 
protector. Wendula was a very resolute 
character ; she was not afraid of the devil 
himself, nor even of the Grand Duke, for 
she had once said to him : " Eh, your Se- 
rene Highnessl Get along with you, out 
of my way ! " and had threatened him with 
her broom. 

Under the protection of Rand and Wen- 
dula, the two Serene Highnesses passed 
the night in peace, and they sat together 
at breakfast next morning, drinking choco- 
late. The Grand Duke appeared to be in 
deep thought, and at length gave utterance 
to his conclusions : 

" Sister Christel, you are a woman, and 
you know I have no great opinion of the 
sex ; but you belong to our distinguished 
family, and therefore I will makeyou ac- 
quainted with my intentions. Wnat do 
think? I propose to select a pleasant 
place somewhere in my dominions, and 
build a new palace." 

V I would ao so," said she. " But, — your 
Highness is lord of the whole country to 
be sure, — but how will you raise the 
money ? " 

''That occurred to me, too/' said the 
Grand Duke. " Why do I have my bailiffs ? 
They must furnish the timber and stone, 
and the workmen can wait for their 
wages, for it is an unheard of thing that 

* Rohr dommel, species of bittern. 

of Congress at Washington.] 



Serenissimus Strelitziensis should be tor- 
mented with a ghost, under his very nose. 
The stupid chamberlain, to be sure; said 
it was the Rodump; but what is a Ro- 
domp? I can believe almost anything, 
bat nobody can expect me, in my position 
of reigning Sovereign, to believe such a 
story as that. Rand," said he to his valet, 
"Jochen Bahnhase shall put the horses to 
the golden coach, three lackeys behind, 
and two runners in front; the coachman 
and the lackeys shall wear their state uni- 
forms with the gold lace', and the two run- 
ners, Halsband and Fleischfreter, shall 
wear their new Paris hats with flowers, — 
a la Pompadour,'* he added aside, to his 
sister. — »' for I am going to travel through 
my dominions." 

* Tes, your Highness,'' said Rand ; " but 
I don't know how we can manage it, for 
the old Wallach, that goes on the right, is 
so badly spavined, that he can scarcely 
pot one foot before the other." 

"What difference does that make?" 
asked his Highness, with great contempt. 
" If one horse is sick, you can go to Farmer 
Sachtleben, and borrow one of his horses." 

"Yes, your Highness, but he cannot 
spare one ; it is his busiest time of carting 
manure, and he couldn't think of it." 

" Yon are to go, Rand ; we are reigning 

So Rand went, and Sachtleben let him 
have his old, stiff Brown, for the state 

Jochen Bahnhase drove up before the 
door with the golden coach u the three 
lackeys got up behind,- \he two runners 
hovered along the street, Rand sat on the 
box. and his Serene Highness with his 
sister Christel sat in the coach. 

* Which way ? " asked Jochen Bahnhase. 

" Straight forward," replied Rand, " be- 
yond Stargard, as far as the boundary ; but 
not over the boundary, •for we are only 
travelling in our own dominions." 

So Jochen Bahnhase drove, through Star- 
gard and through Friedlanft to the Prus- 
sian border, and then pulled up his horses : 
* P-r-r, oh ha ! This is the end ! " Then 
the Grand Duke gave orders to drive be- 
yond Woldeyk; and when they passed 
Woldeyk and came near Wulfajtagen the 
coachman turned his horses at the boun- 
dary line, and said: -"Rand, here it is 
again, we can go no farther." 

The Princess Christel, who had over- 
heard him, remarked to her brother : " This 
is the first time I have travelled so exclu- 
sively in our own dominions; I had no 
idea they were so limited in extent." 

» Christel,'' said his Highness, "you are 

a woman, and you don't know what you 
are talking about; do you think every- 
thing lies to the southward of Strelitz? 
Feldbarg and Mirow and Forstenbarg are 
all in my dominions, and beyond Mirow, it 
stretches out in a point into Schwerin, as 
may be plainly seen." 

" No, Serene Highness," said Rand, "the 
region is not to be seen quite so plainly, 
for the sand blows in one's eyes too much. 
I ought to know, for I was born and 
brought up there." 

His Highness was provoked at Rand's 
foolish jest, and putting his head out of 
the golden coach he called : 

" Jochen Bahnhase, home 1 Tomorrow, 
we will drive to Forstenbarg, and through 
the Mirow forests." 

This was done exactly as his Highness 
commanded, for he was a very determined 
ruler, and when he had said a thing, he 
stuck to it. So the next day they drove 
through Forstenbarg, and the pine forests ; 
and when Rand bent down to the carriage 
door, and said : " Serene Highness, here 
we are again ! " his Highness was angry, 
and cried : " Wesenberg I " as if he would 
console himself in that way. 

But in spite of Wesenberg, he came back 
to Nigen-Strelitz in a very discontented 
mood ; and Rand and the Princess Christel 
stood together in the corridor, and shook 
their heads, and said : " What is this com- 
ing to?" 

Aud the morning and the evening were 
the third day, and his Highness did not 
reign this night, for he slept. There were 
no Rodumps to be heard, and the ghosts 
who were usually on duty at the castle 
of Nigen-Strelitz had for this night ap- 
pointments elsewhere. 

The next morning Rand came down to 
the Princess Christel, and said : " Thank 
God I this night we have slept peacefully, 
and to-day we are going westward, towards 
Nigen-Bramborg ; then we shall have 
travelled over our whole realm." 

And Princess Christel said : " God grant 
it 1 He will be satisfied then, for he is a 
very determined ruler." 

Three hours later, they were driving 
past the Tannen Krug at Nigen-Bram- 
borg; and because Sachtleben's old Brown 
could go no further, and they must substi- 
tute one of the inn-keeper's horses, the 
Grand Duke walked up and down before 
the door while they were waiting, and 
looked over at the beautiful lake and the 
Broda forest, and said to his sister in 
High-German, — for the inn-keeper's wife 
stood by, and he must keep up his ducal 
dignity, — " Most Serene Highness, what 



do you think ? Suppose we should build 
ourselves a ' Belvidere' over the lake ? " 

Princess Christel was about to reply, 
but Band sprang forward, and said : " Tour 
Serene Highness is always right ! We must 
have a Bellmandiir 1 All the Serene High- 
nesses have Bellmandiirs, and we have 
none ! " 

And the Grand Duke said: "Rand is 
right." And so they drove about in Nigen- 

When he had come as far as the market- 
place, in this pearl of his kingdom, he 
called out of the golden coach:- "Rand, 
Jochen Bahnhase must stop 1 " and there- 
upon he and his sister got down from the 
carriage, Rand having previously de- 
scended from the box, and the three lack- 
eys from behind ; and the two runners, 
Halsband and Fleischfreter, paused to take 
breath. And then said his Serene High- 
ness, Adolf Friedrich IV. : " This pleases 
us, and here will we build us a palace ! " 

Her Highness, the Princess Christel, was 
going to say something ; but his Highness, 
the reigning sovereign, interrupted her, 
saying : 

"Your Highness, Christel, what more 
would you have ? Are you not satisfied ? 
Tou see," — still speaking in High German, 
for they were surrounded by a small crowd 
of his * faithful subjects,' who indeed ap- 

E eared, to the outward eye, to be merely 
ttle street 'urchins, but the Grand Duke 
must keep up his dignity, — " you see, 
there yonder by the Rathhaus, we will 
build it." 

And he looked at the Rathhaus from 
this side and that, and the Rathhaus al- 
lowed itself to be looked at, which was no 
very difficult matter; for from its style 
of architecture one might suppose it had 
been taken out of a Christmas baby-house, 
years and years ago, and set down in the 
market-place of the border-city Nigen- 
Bramborg, for the magistrate and the 
citizens to play with. 

The Princess Christel said at last: 
u Cela me convient; And, your Highness, 
you can build your palace with a couple 
of wings, and I will live in one of them." 

" You must let that go, for the present, 
Sister Christel," said his Highness, turning 
about, " Don't undertake too much, and 
you are less likely to fail 1 I am not going 
to have such a pack of women in this new 
palace, as we keep at Nigen-Strelitz. Rand," 
cried he, "go to the two Burmeisters, 
and you/ 1 turning to two of the laokeys, 
" call the Rathsherrs hither to me ; I sum- 
mon them together, I, the reigning sover- 
eign* You are to stay here l " he said to 

the third lackey, "we will not be left 
entirely without attendance." 

So he walked up and down with his 
sister Christel, quite regardless of her 
pouting discontent, and the lackey shuffled 
along behind them. 

The two Burmeisters and the four Raths- 
herrs came, and the Grand Duke signified 
to them his singular intention of building 
a palace in their market-place, and in 
accordance with old, dignified customs 
they made him a deep bow, and the oldest 
Burmeister was about to speak of the 
great honour it would be; when the 
youngest Rathsherr, who had not a par- 
ticle of tact, began to say that it would be 
a pity to build up their fine, open market- 
place, and that at least, consent must first 
be asked of the representatives of the city. 

But his Highness merely looked him 
sternly in the face, with one of his princely 
eyes, and then turned on his heel and 
hummed the air : 

•• Marlbrouok s'en va t'en guerre," 

and this lofty presence of mind averted any 
further unpleasant discussion of the matter. 
The discomfited Rathsherr went home, 
and foolishly told the whole story to his 
wife ; she took two of their innocent chil- 
dren, and set one on each knee, placed a 
third at his feet, and, standing behind 
them, asked him impressively if he would 
make her and his* whole family uuhappy. 
He said, No, he couldn't, and he wouldn't 
do that ; and so the entire opposition party, 
in his Serene Highness's dominions, was 
vanquished by this resolute woman. 

But the Grand Duke, with the Princess 
Christel, the two runners, and the three 
lackeys behind, drove back to Nigen- 
Strelitz in the golden coach, with the firm 
conviction in his princely mind that, with 
a single glance of one eye, he had con- 
trolled the whole machinery of the State, 
and set in progress a national work. And 
he kept the inn-keeper's old chestnut mare 
in his stables until the brown gelding was 
well enough to be used again. 

Adolf Freidrich IV., Duke of Mecklen- 
burg-Strelitz, was a son of the Prince of 
Mirou, at whose expense old Fritz, in his 
jolly Rheinsbarg years, played many a 
prank. He was the successor, in the gov- 
ernment, of Adolf Friedrich III., who left 
behind him many debts, but no children. 
Because he was not quite sixteen years 
old, they thought he was not mature 
enough to govern, which was a great mis- 
take, for, in the first place, he was mature. 
At least, he never became any more so. 
In the. second place, his mother could have 



governed for him ; and thirdly, in that 
ease, his beloved cousin, Christian Ludwig 
of Mecklenburg- Schwerin would not have 
over-run the realm with an army ; for he, 
too, had a strong desire to govern for him. 
He did not quite succeed, however ; for the 
child's mother, a Princess of Hildburga- 
hansen, cut away in the night, with her 
little duke, and ran off with him to Grips- 
wold. Here she had him instructed oy 
tutors, for if he wasn't old enough to gov- 
ern, he was old enough to study; bat 
she herself wrote a long letter to the 
"Reicbshofrath," showing that her child 
was quite different from other children, 
that he had always been wonderfully clever, 
and if he were not soon pronounced of age, 
he might become too mature, to the injury 
of his realm. The " Beichshofrath " con- 
sidered the matter, and did the wisest 
thing possible ; he declared our Grand 
Duke of age ; and the beloved cousin, Chris- 
tian. Ludwig, was obliged to draw back, 
with a Ions face, and to relinquish the 

Searl of Mecklenburg-Strelitz, Nigen- 
ramborg, which he had occupied with an 
army of five companies of soldiers. 

The Grand Duke Adolf Friedrich reigned 
from 1753 to 1794, without interruption to 
the happiness of his realm ; but not to his 
own happiness, for he was an unfortunate 
man, since he was tormented with three 
horrors and three fears, which gave him no 
peace. In the first place, he had a horror 
of work ; secondly, a yet mater horror of 
ghosts and witches ; and thirdly, the great- 
est horror of all, of women-kind; then he 
had a great fear of thunder storms, a greater 
fear of death, and the greatest fear of all, 
lest he might lose his dukedom, for he al- 
ways thought with terror of that beloved 
cousin of Mecklenburg-Schwerin, from 
whom he had run away in the dark night, 
to the university of Gripswold. To all 
these misfortunes was added another ; he 
had visited Paris, and there he had fallen 
hopelessly in love. Not with a woman, for, 
as I have said already, he had a horror of 
the sex ; no ! but with fine clothes. He 
■turf have them, they were necessary to his 
happiness and to that of his realm, and his 
estates did not afford him revenue enough 
to satisfy his desires in the way of velvet 
coats and silk stockings. 

If any one should say, at present, that a 
duke of Mecklenburg was in need of suitable 
clothing, it would sound like a joke, and 
nobody would believe it ; but it was no 
joke then. Times have changed. The 
third part of the revenue of the corpora- 
tion of Stargard is greater than the reve- 
nue of the whole country at that time, and 

then there were debts upon debts, and they 
were so hard up, even at the Court, some- 
times, that Adolf Friedrich III. would be 
entirely out of bread-corn. Then came the 
Seven Years' war, and old Fritz tapped the 
Mecklenburg meal-barrel, as long as any- 
thing would run out of it, and did not stop 
at that either; horses and wagons were 
taken away, and what the Belli Dgschen 
Hussars left behind was carried off by the 
Swedes ; and that wasn't the worst of it. 
The Prussian recruiting officers were all 
over the country, and wherever they found 
a fine stalwart fellow, they carried him off 
"for the music," that is to say, for the 

Many stories of these kidnapping affairs 
were still in circulation when I was a boy ; 
how these fellows had carried people off, 
either by strategy or violence; and my 
own grandfather and his brother, who had 
been entrapped in some way, had only with 
the greatest difficulty, and by the aid of a 
brave forester's wife, escaped out of their 
hands. Anybody who had arms and legs 
was liable to be taken ; but it was espe- 
cially the poor shepherd-boys for whom 
they lay in wait. Such a poor, simple fel- 
low would be all alone in the pasture, with 
his knitting-work, thinking of anything in 
the world except soldiers, and suddenly 
they would seize him, bind his arms behind 
him, and march him off. Or he would be 
sleeping at night, in his little hut, dreaming 
so sweetly of his Fika or his DUrten, and 
they would nail up the hut, and carry him 
off helpless over the Prussian border, and 

Eut him into a red coat. Some they took 
y strategy, as was the case with a shep- 
herd who was famed for his uncommon 
strength. He was standing amoqg his sheep 
one day, when a Prussian recruiter in dis- 
guise came along, and said very pleasantly : 
"Krischan, they say you are so wonder- 
fully strong ; I will wager two bottles of 
beer, that if I put your crook through your 
coat sleeves, across your back, you cannot 
break it in two." 

" The devil I cannot ! " said Krischan ; 
and the recruiter put the stick through his 
sleeves* and when it was ready he whis- 
tled, and a companion sprang towards him, 
and they took poor Krischan by his out- 
stretched arms, and led him off, as helpless 
as a child. He must have cut a comical 
figure enough, but that didn't help the 

There was great distress in the country, 
and no help to be found anywhere ; not 
even from his Serene Highness, Adolf 
Friedrich IV., for he was in the greatest 
distress himself. He had, unfortunately, 



made the acquaintance in Paris of the 
most fashionable tailor of the day, and had 
given him a commission to keep him sup- 
plied with the latest fashions. The friendly 
man did so ; but he had the audacity to 
expect ready money in payment, and his 
Highness, in his velvet and silken necessi- 
ties, was compelled to pawn his crown jew- 
els for nine thousand thalers to a Jew in 
Hamburg. The war was over to be 6ure, 
but the distress was worse than ever ; the 
war had brought a little life into trade, 
but now everything was perfectly flat. 
Farmers and shopkeepers and mechanics, 
nobody could earn a groschen. Why? 
Because there were no groschens to be 
earned, and the crown-jewels were pawned 
to a Hamburg Jew. 

This sad state of things prevailed 
through all Mecklenburg-Strelitz, with the 
exception of Nigen-Bramborg. There, of 
course, everything was lively; his High- 
ness sept his master carpenter, to build the 
new palace; a skilful man, who, merely 
out of the remnants of the timber and 
hewn-stone, built the " Bellmandiir " in the 
Broda wood ; and it was a great advantage 
to Bramborg. And the twelve masons, 
and the twelve journeymen carpenters, 
who got five groschen a day, used to go 
through the streets, in the evening, with 
their hats cooked gayly on their heads, 
singing: "Were it ever, were it ever, 
were, it ever so I" and the old policeman, 
Bendsnider, who was the ancestor of all 
the Police Bendsnider race, would say: 
" Let them sing 1 They bring money into 
the place." 

At the end of the year, the palaoe was 
half-finished, and the next year, it was 
three-quarters finished ; and then we took 
breath for two years, after our superhuman 
exertions ; and in the autumn of the fifth 
year, it was all completed. ' And the peas- 
ants from all the region round about, and 
many from Penzlin and Stargard, came 
to Bramborg to see the affair, and they 
brought money into the city; so people 
really began to regard his Serene High- 
ness as a public benefactor. 

The Bramborgers, as faithful subjects, 
recognized the fact, and when the Grand 
Duke moved into his new palace the next 
spring, they bestirred themselves to give 
him a festive reception. The city treasury 
gave fifty thalers. in the old well-known 
Miinz groschens, and altogether it came to 
a hundred aud five thalers, three groschens, 
seven pfennigs, — it should properly have 
been seven groschens, seven pfennigs; for 
the Rathsherr, above mentioned, also gave 
four groschens, but his gift was returned 
to him, for fear that his Serene Highness, 
if he should know of it, might not be 
pleased to receive a contribution from so 
democratic a quarter. 

So his Highness lived in his new palace ; 
Nigen-Bramborg had a smaller market- 
place, but a great princely Residence ; and 
Princess Christel, waiting patiently for her 
wing, took up meanwhile with the first 
floor of Buttermann the shop-keeper. And 
now the people of Nigen-Bramborg could 
realize the great advantage of a " princely 

A wmrra in the current number of the Re- 
vne des Deux Monde* draws attention to the 
change in the relations between employers and 
workmen in Alsace which has been brought 
about through its annexation to Germany. 
Some months before the war Mulhouse and 
Bisohwiller were the scenes of frequent strikes. 
The claims of the workmen, acting under the 
influence of the secret societies, were a source 
of continual disputes. Sometimes it was the 
amount of wages and at others the hours of 
labour that brought about these dissensions, in 
whioh the employers always came off best, and 
whioh were often ended by conflicts with the po- 
lice and the imprisonment of some of the more 
riotous of the men. The war necessarily inter- 
rupted these disputes; part of the workmen 
took up arms and the rest remained for a time 

without employment When peace was restored 
and industry revived, masters and men forgot 
their old grievances in a common reconciliation. 
" It seemed," says M. Reybaud, who writes as 
an eye-witness, " as if there were but one soul 
in that population lately given over to so many 
dissensions, only one interest in place of so many 
that appeared irreconcilable. Mourning over 
defeat and the pressure of the foreigner had 
wrought this miracle. During more than two 
years this miracle continues, and it may be said 
that its effects are not diminished. There is not 
a single recrimination or complaint, never has 
the workshop been more frequented nor public 
places more tranquil. All are united, both 
great and small, in suffering the same sorrows 
and sharing the same fortune." 

Pall Hall Gaaetto. 



From Stint Pauls. 

Many persons were alarmed last Au- 
gust lest it should be true (as reported) 
that Plan tam our, the Swiss astronomer, 
kid predicted the earth's destruction by a 
comet on the twelfth of that month. When 
once a prediction of this sort has been an- 
nounced, it is almost impossible to remove 
the impression produced by it. The re- 

Scted author of the prediction may deny 
ady that he had ever announced even the 
approach of a comet ; every astronomer 
of repute may add his testimony to the 
effect that no comet is due at the time 
indicated for the earth's destruction ; the 
way in which the mistake arose may be 
explained, and every effort made to spread 
the explanation as widely as possible : yet 
the impression will nevertheless remain 
that there must have been some ground 
for the prediction, or — if it be insisted 
that no prediction was made — then there 
most have been some ground for the story 
of the prediction. Confidence is not com- 
pktely restored until the day and hour 
announced for the earth's destruction have 
passed without mishap.* 

A striking illustration of the proneness 
of men to believe in astronomical predic- 
tions of the earth's destruction was afford- 
ed by a circumstance in the history of a 
comet, which is at the present time giving 
trouble to astronomers in another way. 
The u missing comet," about which I now 
propose to speak, has been in its day a 
source of terror to the nations. 

About forty years ago, it was widely 
announced that astronomers were on the 
watch for a comet whose path approaches 
▼ery closely to the earth's — in fact, within 
the astronomically minute distance of 
20,000 miles, or thereabouts. Immediate- 
ly the news spread that the earth was to 
he destroyed. A comet must be small in- 
deed which has not a head more than forty 
or fifty thousand miles in diameter — so 

* Being at Sheffield last October, I was told an 
neediest story about the comet The story has the 
advantage over most others of the kind, of being 
strictly true: — In a certain house, in Sheffield, 
Monday, August 12. had been appointed a great 
vaning-day. On the morning of the day, the 
fcottjekeeoer asked for an interview with her master 
on the subject of the comet. She begged to know 
If It were really true that the world was to be de- 
«myed on that day. Receiving assurances to the 
contrary, she expressed some degree of satisfaction : 
"bat, shr," she said, " though what you say may be 
very true, might tt not be Just as well tbptU ojf the 
•asking tiU to-morrow? " Whether she thought a 
washing-day unsuitable for the comet's visit, or that 
» food deaning-up would be desirable on the day 
after the visit, deponent sayeth not. 

that the coming oomet must be expected 
to extend far beyond the 20,000 miles sep- 
arating its track from the earth's. The 
terrible head of the comet would therefore 
envelop the earth, and either the earth 
would be dissolved with fervent heat, or 
else, perhaps, drowned by a second flood. 
Even if the earth escaped either form of 
destruction, the shock of the collision 
would destroy every living creature on her 
surface. Nay, granting even — though 
many were too frightened to admit the 
possibility — that a comet is but a thin 
luminous vapour, was it not all but cer- 
tain that this vapour, permeating our at- 
mosphere, would asphyxiate men and ani- 

Astronomers were rather surprised at 
the interpretation put upon their predic- 
tion. They were tolerably well assured 
that the comet would cross the earth's 
track very nearly at the time indicated ; 
but they had said nothing about the earth's 
encountering the comet. In fact, they had 
announced that the comet would at the 
end of October cross the path of the 
earth's track which she traverses at the 
end of November. The fears of a col- 
lision were as absurd as would be the 
fears of passengers by a certain train, 
who should be in terror of their lives 
because another train was to cross their 
line at a certain point an hour before 
they reached that point. But it was use- 
less for astronomers to point out that the 
intersection of two paths did not imply the 
collision of bodies following those paths.* 
The alarm having once been sounded, no 

• It is rather singular that mid takes should be 
made in a matter seemingly so obvious, — and not 
only by the ignorant, but by well educated persons. 
Thus, in one of Cooper'* novels (I forget which at 
the moment, but have an impression that it is the 
" Path Under ," — It is one of those in which Leath- i 
erstocking, alias Hawkeye, appears as a young J 
man), a shooting content is elaborately described, in * 
which the great feat of all depends on precisely such 
a mistake as was made about the comet of 1882. The 
young marksman (not yet called Hawkeye) succeeds 
in all the trials of skill, until only he and a rival in 
the heroine's affections are left in the contest. Then 
the great trial is made. Two persons, standing some 
distance apart, throw each a potato, in such a way 
that the two paths (as seen by the marksman), 
intersect, and the marksman is to fire so as to 
hit both potatoes. The favoured lover succeeds, 
but the ftature Hawkeye generously misses. After- 
wards, however, to show the heroine that he 
al^o oould have accomplished the impossible feat, 
he accomplishes another. He invites her attention 
to two birds high overhead, and travelling on con- 
verging paths ; and offers to kill the two with a sin- 
gle bullet. The birds obligingly consent to this ar- 
rangement, and when their dead bodied fall at the 
feet of the maiden she recognizes the generosity of 
the young rifleman. But not a word is said about 
the self-sacridcing ingenuity of the birds, and the 
amazing skill which the potato-throwers must hav 
acquired to render the rifleman's feat a possibility . 



reasoning would allay the fears of the gen- 
eral public. 

Nay, some, who understood that the 
earth herself would not come into colli- 
sion with the comet, were in dread lest the 
earth's orbit should suffer 1 . 

"Even among those," says Guilleinin, 
" who placed confidence in the precision 
of astronomical calculations there were 
some who at least feared a derangement 
of our orbit. Doubtless to them an orbit 
wao something material, — a metallic circle, 
for example ; ' a9 if/ says Arago, in relat- 
ing this curious notion, ' the form of the 
path in which a bomb after leaving a mor- 
tar traverses space was dependent on the 
number and positions of the paths which 
other bombs had formerly described in the 
same region/ " > 

It is rather singular that the very comet 
which thus inspired an altogether ground- 
less fear, shonld have supplied the most 
striking evidence astronomers have ever 
obtained respecting the insignificance of 
the effects which may be expected to fol- 
low from the collision of a planet with a 
comet. Biela's comet — or Gambart's, 
as the French astronomers call it — has 
not merely been broken up under the very 
eyes of astronomers, and in a region of 
space where no masses of any importance 
can have encountered it, but since that 
time it has been bo far dissipated, — no 
one knows how, — that the most powerful 
telescopes have failed to show the comet, 
even when its calculated place was such 
that had it retained its former appearance 
it would have been visible to the naked 

The history of Biela's comet has been 
singularly interesting throughout. 

The comet may be said to have been 
- discovered when Biela, in February, 1826, 
i first observed it in Aries ; for it was then 
J only that the true nature of this comet's 
path was recognized. It was found that 
it travels in an orbit of moderate dimen- 
sions, carrying it when farthest from the 
sun to a distance somewhat exceeding that 
of the planet Jupiter. It belongs, indeed, 
to a family or group of planets distin- 
guished by the peculiarity that their paths 
pass very close to that of Jupiter, inso- 
much that the notion has been suggested 
that either these comets have all been 
forced to take up their present paths 
through the tremendous attractive in- 
fluence of the giant planet, or else that 
every one of them has been expelled from 
Jupiter's interior at some far-distant 

So carefully was Biela's comet observed 

in 1826, that it was found possible to trace 
back the comet's course through former 
revolutions with sufficient accuracy to de- 
termine whether the comet had been be- 
fore observed. When this was done, it 
was found that the comet had been seen 
on March 8, 1772, by Montaigne, at Lim- 
oges ; and later, up to April 3, by Messier, 
the great comet-hunter.* The comet had 
also been seen (having returned four 
times in the iuteval) by Pons, on Novem- 
ber 10, 1805. On this occasion it present- 
ed a somewhat remarkable appearance, its 
head having an apparent diameter equal 
to about a fourth of the moon's. Ou De- 
cember 8, the astronomer Olbers saw it 
without a telescope. From calculations 
made on that occasion, some astronomers 
were led to suspect that this comet might 
be the same which Montaigne had seen in 
1772; but the art of calculating cometic 
orbits had not then been so thoroughly 
mastered as to enable any mathematicians 
to speak confidently on this point. In- 
deed, at that time the idea was very gen- 
generally entertained that comets travel 
for the most part in orbits having enor- 
mous dimensions. Only one instance — 
Lexell's comet — had hitherto been known 
to the contrary, and there were excellent 
reasons for regarding that instance as al- 
together exceptional. 

In 1826, however, the comet was too 
carefully observed for any doubts to be 
further entertained. It was shown by 
several eminent mathematicians that the 
comet has a period of about six years and 
nine months. Santini and Damoiseau as- 
signed November 27, 1832, as the date of 
this comet's return to its point of nearest 
approach to the sun. Olbers confirmed 
this result, showing, moreover, that the 
comet's course would bring it within 
20,000 miles of the earth's path. Remark- 
ing on this, Sir John Hershel wrote, in 
1866, " The orbit of this comet very near- 
ly indeed intersects that of the earth on 
the place which the earth occupies on or 
about the 30th of November. If ever the 
earth is to be swallowed up by a comet, 
or to swallow up one, it will be on or about 

* 8o thoroughly had Messier identified himself 
with the work of comet-seeking, that all sublunary 
events seemed insignificant to him by oomparison. 
It la. related of him that he was less troubled at his 
wUVs death than at theciroumstanoe that, owing to 
the interruption to his labours which her illness nad 
occasioned, he failed to discover a comet, a rival 
comet-seeker gaining that distinction. A friend met 
the distracted widower a day or two after Mme. 
Messier's death, and expressed sympathy with him. 
'* Ah," replied Messier, "it was hard — was it not! 
— that after all my watching I was obliged to leave 
my telescope just when the comet came." 



that day of the year. In the year 1832 
we missed it by a month. The head of 
the comet enveloped that point of onr or- 
bit; bat this happened on the 29th of 
October, so that we escaped that time. 
Had a meeting taken place, from what we 
know of comets, it ia probable that no 
harm would have happened, and that no* 
body would have known anything about 

It is important to notice how closely the 
calculations of astronomers agreed with 
the observed event on this, the first occa- 
sion of the comet's return after its orbit 
had been calculated. If it be remembered 
that after 1826 the comet was out of sight 
for nearly six years, during all which time 
it was more or less exposed to disturbing 
attractions, it will be admitted that astron- 
omy would have had no reason to be 
ashamed if the comet had returned to its 
point of nearest approach to the sun, 
within a week, or even a month, of the 
appointed time. But the actual difference 
between the observed and calculated time 
was less than twelve hours. To illustrate 
this by a terrestrial instance, the case is 
much as though an express train from 
Edinburgh should arrive in London within 
a second of the appointed time — a de- 
gree of accuracy not invariably attained, 
though the terrestrial engineer has the 
power, which the comet has not, of making 
op for lost time. 

It is also to be noticed, that at each re- 
turn of a comet its course can be predict- 
ed with greater accuracy ; since the error 
noticed at any particular return affords 
the means of rectifying former calculations, 
and providing against similar error at 
fcture returns. The reader will presently 
see why this point is insisted upon : it is 
essential to notice the degree of mastery 
which astronomers had acquired, even so 
far back aa 1832, over the motions of this 
particular comet. 

In 1839 the comet returned, but was not 
seen, owing to the position of the sun at 
the time when the comet was in our neigh- 
bourhood. Throughout its passage near 
as, in fact, the comet was lost to sight in 
the splendour of the sun's beams. 

At the next return the comet was de- 
tected very early — for whereas it passed 
the point of its orbit nearest to the sun- on 
February 11, 1846, it was recognized, pre- 
cisely in its calculated place, on November 
28, 1845. • 

And now one of the most singular events 
recorded in the history of comets took 
place. In 1846, "all seemed" says Sir 
John Herschel, a to be going on quietly 

and comfortably, when, behold 1 suddenly, 
on the 13th of January, the comet split 
into two distinct comets! each with a 
head and coma and a little nucleus of its 
own. There is some little contradiction 
about the exact date. Lieutenant Maury, 
of the United States Observatory of Wash* 
ington, reported officially on the loth having 
seen it double on the 13th ; but Professor 
Wichmann, who saw it double on the 15fA, 
avers that he had a good view of it on the 14tA, 
and remarked nothing remarkable in its 
appearance. Be that as it may, the comet 
from a single became a double one. What 
domestic troubles caused the secession it 
is impossible to conjecture; but the two 
receded farther and farther from each 
other up to a certain moderate distance, 
with some degree of mutual communica- 
tion, and a very odd interchange of light, 
— one day one head being brighter, and 
another the other, — till they seem to have 
agreed finally to part company. The odd- 
est part of the story, however, is yet to 
come. The year 1865 brought round the 
time for their re-appearance, and behold ! 
there they both were, at about the same 
distance from each other, and both visible 
in one telescope." 

The oddest part of the story had not 
yet come, however, when Herschel wrote 
the above lines. But, before passing on 
to relate the fate of this comet, it may be 
well to correct a few of the statements 
in the above passage (presented just as it 
stands in the original, because it is a good 
specimen of Sir John Herschel's more fa- 
miliar style of science-writing). 

In the first place, the two companion 
comets had each a tail, as well as a head, 
coma, and nucleus. Then, as the object 
was passing out of view in 1846, the two 
comets seemed to approach each other. 
The greatest distance between them was 
attained on or about March 3, 1846, and 
amounted to about 157,000 miles. On the 
return of the double comet, in 1852, the 
distance had by no means remained un- 
changed, as Herschel states, but had in- 
creased to about 1,250,000 miles. It is 
worthy of notice, in passing, that Planta- 
in our, of Genoa, — the same astronomer to 
whom the prediction of the world's de- 
struction by a comet on August 12 last, 
was mistakenly assigned, — calculated the 
path? of both the components, and the 
motions of the comets were found to agree 
very closely with his results during the 
whole time that the comets .continued vis* 

In 1858, the comet probably returned; 
bat, as- in 1889, the part of the heavens- 



traversed by it was too close to the sun's 
place to permit the comet to be seen. I 
say that the comet probably returned; 
because we know that in 1852 it safely 
traversed the part of space where it had 
formerly divided, and passed from the 
sun's neighbourhood towards the outer 
parts of its orbit, apparently unscathed. 
But what happened to the comet during 
its passage past the sun in 1859 is not 
known. It will presently be seen that in 
all probability the comet was then de- 
stroyed or dissipated in some way. In 
fact, it is manifest that the same reason 
which leads us to believe that the comet 
returned in 1859, would lead us to believe, 
that, if it passed away again uninjured, it 
would have been seen at the next return 
or in 1866. But 1866 came ; the path of 
the comet was assigned ; astronomers 
looked forward with interest to its reap- 
pearance, eager to see how far the two 
component comets had separated from 
each other; — and no comet appeared! 
Telescopes of great power and of exquisite 
defining qualities swept the whole track 
on which the comet was to have travelled ; 
nor were the neighbouring regions of the 
heavens left unexplored ; but not a trace 
of the comet could anywhere be seen. 
There was not the slightest room for 
questioning the accuracy of the calcula- 
tions by which the path had been predict- 
ed. Astronomers were certain that if un- 
destroyed or undissipated the comet would 
follow the assigned path, — as certain as a 
station-master would be that a train would 
enter a station along the line of rails as- 
signed to it, unless some accident or mis- 
take should occur. Now comets do not 
make mistakes ; but, as we now see, they 
are not free from the risk of accidents. 
This comet had already met with an ac- 
cident, being broken by some mischance 
into two parts under the very eyes of as- 
tronomers. Probably in 1859 it met with 
further misfortunes, visible mayhap to as- 
tronomers in Venus or Mercury. At any 
rate, something had happened to the com- 
et since its retreat in 1852. " It is now," 
wrote Sir J. Herschel at the time (Feb. 
1866), " overdue 1 Its orbit has beeu re- 
computed, and an ephemeris " (that is, an 
account of its motion from hour to hour) 
"calculated. Astronomers have been 
eagerly looking out for its reappearance 
for the last two months when, according 
to all former experience, it ought to have 
been conspiciously visible— but without 
snccess 1 giving rise to the strangest theo- 
ries. At all events, it seems to have fair- 
ly disappeared,, and that without any such 

excuse as in the case of Lex ell's, vis., the 
preponderant attraction of some great 
planet. Can it have come into contact or 
exceedingly close approach to some aster- 
oid as yet undiscovered : or, peradventure, 
plunged into, and got bewildered among 
the ring of meteorolites, which astrono- 
mers more than suspect ? " 

Both these explanations seem at a first 
view available. Biela's comet had a course 
carrying it though the outskirts of the zone 
of minor planets ; and there was nothing 
whatever to prevent the comet from com- 
ing into collision with one of these bodies, 
or else approaching so nearly as to be 
greatly disturbed, and so travel thereafter 
on a different orbit. But an objection ex- 
ists which Sir J. Herschel does not seem to 
have noticed. When the comet retired in 
1852 it consisted of two distinct comets, 
separated by an intervening space of about 
1,250,000 miles. Now it would be a singu- 
lar chance which should bring one of these 
comets into collision with a minor planet, 
or so near as to occasion an important dis- 
turbance. But supposing this to happen, 
then the fellow-comet, not travelling in 
the wake of the first, but side by side, 
would certainly have escaped . For it must 
be remembered, that although 1,250,000 
miles is a very small distance indeed by 
comparison with the dimensions of the 
solar system, it is an enormous distance 
compared with the dimensions of the minor 
planets, — some of which have a surface 
not much greater than that of an English 
county. The minor planet occasioning the 
comet's disturbance would presumably be 
one of the smallest, since it has not yet 
been detected, and the newly discovered 
minor planets are on the average much 
smaller than those first detected. Now, 
the earth herself would have no very 
marked influence on a comet or meteor 
passing her at a distance of 1,250,000 miles ; 
for it is to be remembered, that the comets 
as well as the earth have an enormously 
rapid motion, and the disturbing power of 
the earth would therefore only act for a 
short time. But a minor planet — even 
the largest of the family, — would not have 
the twenty-thousandth part of the earth's 
power* to disturb a passing comet. At a 

♦ It is probable that the largest of the minor plan- 
ets — Vesta— has a diameter of rather more than 
200 miles, or at the outside say 260 miles — the thir- 
tieth part of the earth's diameter. Then, assuming 
Vesta to have the same density as the earth (where- 
as, being smaller, she probably is very muoh leas 
compressed), we get for her mass (or, which is the 
same thing, her attractive power) the 27,000th part 
of the earth's,— obtaining the number 27,000 by 
multiplying 90 twice into itself. 



distance of 200,000 miles, a comet would 
pass such an asteroid without any marked 
disturbance of its motions. 

Of coarse it is not absolutely impossible 
that one of the comets of the pair should 
have been encountered by one minor plan- 
et, and the other by another ; but the im- 
probability against sucb a contingency is 
so great that we need scarcely entertain 
the idea even as a bare possibility. 

We are left then to the supposition that 
the comet was destroyed or dissipated by 
meteoric streams. It is at once seen that 
this theory is at least more consistent with 
observed facts than the other. - The comet 
had been seen to divide into two parts in a 
portion of the solar system where cer- 
tainly no bodies but meteorites can be 
supposed to travel. It seems reasonable 
to suppose that on that occasion the head 
of the comet had come right upon some 
group of meteors, and so had divided as a 
stream of water divides against a rock. 
Assuming this, we find reason for believ- 
ing that (he track of this comet crosses 
a rich meteor-region. The particular 
group which had caused the division of 
the comet would of course pass away, 
and would not probably come again in 
the comet's way for many years or even 
centuries. But another group belonging 
to the same system might in its turn en- 
counter the comet, and complete the pro- 
cess of dissipation which the former had 
commenced. On this theory, the distance 
between the companion comets would in- 
troduce no difficulty. For not only is it 
quite a common circumstance for meteoric 
systems to have a range of several millions 
of miles, but — a much more important 
consideration — both the comets would be 
bound to return to the scene of the former 
encounter. It was there that each had 
been sent off on a new track ; bub each new 
track started from there, and therefore 
each new track must pass through there. 

So that it seems far from improbable 
that, if the comets could have been watched 
daring their return in 1859, they would 
have been seen to travel onwards towards 
the place where they had originally separ- 
ated; as they approached that place, it 
woakl have been perceived that they drew 
nearer together, though they would not 
reach that point at the same moment ; * 

• Of coarse in an article intended like the present 
fer general reading, it is not possible to enter at 
length into all the considerations which have to he 
•Weeded to in an exact inquiry into the motions of 
tvo comets after separation. It will he sufficient to 
Print oat that, unless the collision which caused the 
•eptiatlon left the Telocity of each exactly equal ~ 
*wbollyanUkely supposition — they would return 

and then each in turn would have appeared 
to grow more and more diffuse as the en- 
counter with the meteor-group proceeded, 
until first one and then the other would 
have vanished altogether from view. 

It may be asked, whether any circum- 
stances in the history of comets seem to 
show that comets rjeally are exposed to 
dissipation in this way. To this the reply 
is, that although Biela's is the only comet 
which has been seen to divide into parts 
in modern times, or under telescopic scru- 
tiny, yet history records more than one 
instance of a similar kind, — and that too 
in the case of distinguished comets, not 
mere telescopic light-clouds such as Biela's. 
The following passage from Grant's noble 
work, "The History of Physical- Astro- 
nomy," gives nearly all that is known on 
this point, though some Chinese records 
might be added did space permit : — 
" Seneca relates that Ephorus, an ancient 
Greek author, makes mention of a comet 
which, before vanishing, was seen to divide 
itself into two distinct bodiesi The Ro- 
man philosopher appears to doubt the pos- 
sibility of such a fact ; but Kepler, with 
characteristic sagacity, has remarked that 
its actual occurrence was exceedingly 
probable. The latter astronomer further 
remarked, that there were some ground) 
for supposing that two comets, which ap- 
peared in the same region of the heavens 
in the year 1618, were the fragments of a 
comet that had experienced a similar dis- 
solution. Hevelius states that Cysatus 
perceived in the head of the great comet 
of 1618 unequivocal symptoms of a break- 
ing up of the body into distinct fragments. 
The comet, when first seen iu the month 
of November, appeared like a round mass 
of concentrated light. On the 8th of De- 
cember it seemed to be divided into sev- 
eral parts. On the 20th of the same 
month it resembled a multitude of small 
stars. Hevelius states that he himself 
witnessed a similar appearance in the head 
of the comet of 1661. 

It is, of course, always possible that the 
destruction or dissipation of a comet may 
be due, not to any collision, but to that 
action (whatever may be its nature) by 
I which the sun seems, after rousing and 
disturbing the matter of a comet's head, 
to repel a part of this matter in such sort 
as to form a tail or two or more tails. In- 
deed it is worthy of notice that before its 
division into two comets, Biela's comet had 

to the scene of collision at different epoohs. The 
increased distance between them in 1852 showed 
that this was actually the owe. 



shown two distinct tail-like appendages; 
and possibly if the comet could have been 
constantly watched, it would have been 
found that these two appendages resolved 
themselves eventually into the two tails of 
two distinct comet*. 

Professor Grant adopts this view of the 
matter. He says, 4 * it is impossible to 
doubt that the division of Biela's comet 
arose from the divellent action of the sun, 
whatever may have been the mode of 
operation." But I must admit, that I find 
it quite possible to doubt whether this is 
indeed the true solution of the difficulty. 
One can understand how two distinct tails 
might be expelled or repelled from a sin- 
gle head ; but it is not so easy to see how 
two complete comets could be formed out 
of one in this way, nothing apparently re- 
maining. To make clear the nature of this 
reasoning, I remind the reader that a com- 
et's tail is either formed out of the head 
(according to Sir J. Herschel's theory), or 
else is formed through a certain action ex- 
erted by the head (according to Prof. 
Tyndall's). In the former case, the pro- 
cess never (so far as observation extends) 
results in completely using up the head ; 
in the latter, very obviously, the head 
must remain, or the action would cease. 
In either case, then, the head would remain. 
So that when two tails were formed they 
would extend from one and the same head. 
The head cannot be made double by the 
same process which produce the double 
tail. There must be some distinct action 
on the head to produce such a result. 
Now the tails, after they are formed, might 
have the power of drawing away ea?h its 
own share of the original head; but the 
supposition seems rather a wild one. On 
the contrary, the supposition that the com- 
et may have divided upon a meteoric 
group involves nothing which is not in ac- 
cordance with known facts, since such me- 
teoric groups exist in countless numbers 
within the interplanetary spaces. 

It is certainly unsafe, however, to dog- 
matize upon this difficult subjeot in the 
present state of our knowledge. 

Whatever may have been the cause of 
tho comet's dissipation, it would seem to 
admit of no possibility of question that 
the comet has been finally and completely 
removed from the list of existing comet3. 
Of course, it ha3 not been abruptly de- 
stroyed ; it3 fragments exist somewhere : 
but, as a comet, it has ceased to exist. If 
it had continued unchanged, it would have 
been again in view, and on the whole un- 
der favourable circumstances, during Oc- 
tober in the present year. Prepared to 

And it much fainter than of yore, or its 
fragments, more widely dispersed, astrono- 
mers searched for it with more care than 
in 1866, not only using more powerful in- 
struments, but extending their search over 
a wider range. But t e comet has not been 
found. At the next return, its path would 
bring it too near to the sun for astrono- 
mers to observe it, even though it retained 
its origiual brightness. We may assume 
that the process of dissipation and disper- 
sion has been all this time in progress. 
And therefore it is impossible to hope that 
a trace of the cotnet will be recognized in 
1880, — when it would again have passed 
into view but for the misfortunes which 
have befallen it. 

This being the case, my readers perhaps 
will be surprised to hear that, in a few 
days from the appearance of these lines, 
astronomers expect to see certain frag- 
ments or debris of this very comet. This, 
however, is actually the case. Since the 
year 1798, there have appeared from time 
to time, early in December, certain meteors 
or falling stars, which follow a track closely 
according with the path of Biela's comet. 
There is not a perfect agreement ; but Dr. 
Weiss, a German astronomer, has s^own 
that the actual path of the meteors corre- 
sponds almost perfectly with that of a 
comet which appeared in 1818, and which 
there is now excellent reason for regarding 
as itself a fragment of Biela's comet. Now, 
during the first week in December, the 
earth will be passing through the broad 
tracks of both these comets, or — regard- 
ing Biela's as two — through the tracks of 
these three comets, and so closely behind 
Biela's pair, that we may fairly expect to 
see many meteors during that week. Pre- 
cisely as, in November, 1886, there was a 
splendid display of November meteors, 
following on the track of Tern pel's comet 
(which had passed early in 1886), so this 
year there will probably be a display of 
meteors following the track of Biela's 
comet, which, though unseen, must have 
crossed the earth's path about the middle 
of October. At any rate, the skies should 
be carefully watched. The shower of 
meteors (should any occur) will fall in 
such a direction that shooting-stars might 
be looked for at any hour of the night. 
And those belonging to Biela's comet 
could be very readily distinguished from 
others, because their tracks would seem 
to radiate from the constellation Cassiopeia. 
So that should any of my readers observe, 
on any night in the first week of Decem- 
ber, a shooting-star following such a track, 
he will have the satisfaction of knowing 


thai in all probability he has seen a frag- 
ment or follower of a comet which has 
divided into two if not three distinct 
comets, and has followed up that process 
of dissipation by dissolving altogether 

It is not easy to form an opinion as to 
the actual probability that a fine display of 
meteors will be seen. This particular me- 
teor system has, however, been known to 
produce somewhat remarkable showers. 
Thus Brandes, who first recognized the 
existence of the system, counted no less 
than four hundred meteors in a few hours, 
while travelling in a covered carriage on 
the night of December 7, 1708. 

In conclusion, we may draw, I think, 
from the history of the missing comet the 
inference that our earth and her fellow- 
planets have little to fear from collision 
with comets. The earth passes each year 
through more than a hundred meteor sys- 
tems and yet Buffers no injury, whereas 
Biela's comet would seem to have been 
destroyed during only a few encounters 
with meteoric groups. It appears evident, 
then, that it would be the comet, not our 
earth, which would suffer in any encounter 
of the sort. Indeed, comets, which once 
occasioned such dread, seem to be but 
frail creatures. To quote the words of 
poor Blanqni, the republican, — who wrote, 
in prison, about comets, as if he sympa- 
thized with them in their trials, — " if com- 
ets escape Saturn, it is to fall under the 
stroke of Jupiter, the policeman of the 
solar system. On duty in the dark, he 
scents (*ic) these hairy nothings (nihilitds 
ckevelue*), before a ray makes them visible, 
and urges them — distracted — towards 
perilous passes. There, seized by heat 
and swollen to monstrosity, they lose their 
shape, lengthen, disaggregate, and break 
confusedly through the terrible straits, 
abandoning the stragglers everywhere, 
and only managing to regain, with great 
difficulty, under the protection of cold, 
their unknown solitudes." 

R. A. Pboctob. 

From Fraser'e Magazine. 

This afternoon, a sunshiny winter after- 
noon, the sky bright blue and the air cold 
and clear, I climbed the winding turret- 
stair which leads to the top of a certain 
tower. The tower, which carries a low 
spire, is that of the parish church of a cer- 

tain little city. That church was built, cen- 
turies ago, as an ancient document bears, 
in media civitate : and from its tower you 
may see the whole city very distinctly. 
Very picturesque is the view. You look 
down on red roofs, and ivied ruins : green 
gardens are interspersed : and on two sides 
the buildings cut against the blue sea. A 
stranger, looking at the prospect for the 
first time, exclaimed, " How charming 1 " 
And no one can feel the special charm of 
it more than the writer does. But I thought, 
looking round, that I knew better than the 
stranger : at least, I knew more. For I 
know every house on which you look 
down : every household : and the curious 
relations between many of them, friendly 
and other. I know the poverty and priva- 
tion : the anxiety and care : which abide 
under many of those roofs. It is not all 
improvement, to know any place so well, 
which is inhabited by human beings. Few 
haman beings look the better, tor being 
looked into too constantly and too long. 
And coining down the cork-screw stair, 
whose steps are worn by some centuries of 
infrequent use, I thought of certain disad- 
vantages which come of living in a small 

Let it be explained what I mean by a 
small community. I mean a little place 
with a considerable number of families of 
nearly equal social position. A country 
parish is not, in the Bense intended, a small 
community. But a Cathedral Close is: or 
a little town. 

And let it be understood that I admit 
the advantages of a small community. 
There is something homely and kindly in 
living where you know everybody and 
everybody knows you. There is a desola- 
tion in the heart of the denizen of such a 
society, when he walks the London streets, 
and gazes into the shop windows. " No 
one knows me here," he thinks, with a 
certain icy shiver. I do not now see how 
anyone can feel at home in that awful 

Flace, though I once lived there for years . 
cannot now understand how I did it. In 
the little town, when you go into a shop, 
no one watches to see if you intend to steal 
something. No policeman has an eye of 
suspicion on you, as you leisurely pass 
along the street. Your vocation and place 
are known accurately; and your income 
with sufficient approximation. You are 
not tempted to incur expense you cannot 
afford. You know that the only reflection 
which will follow your doing so will be that 
of the, Roman citizen returning home after 
seeing Curtius jump into the gulf in the 
Forum : to wit, " What a fool I " 


But there are things on the other side 
of the balance. Let us try to state them, 
look at them, weigh them. 

One is sometimes strongly felt, though 
it may seem fanciful. It is the general 
vague sense that you hare not room to 
stretch yourself. " The bed is shorter than 
that a man can stretch himself on it ; and 
the covering narrower than that he can 
wrap himself in it." I do not mean to say 
that this feeling is constant. Sometimes, 
one is quite content. But again, the wish 
arise 8 for space in which to expand and 
expatiate. There comes a weariness of 
always seeing the same faces, and going 
tlie same round. I fancy that a mill-horse, 
ever turning round in the same narrow 
track, would sometimes wish for any- 
thing for a change. 1 do not, however, 
say more on this point : because I know 
various eminently sensible persons, who 
have in my hearing stated that Goethe 
was a fool, and who would declare that 
'what has already been said is fanciful, and 
even morbid. So let us advance to what 
is beyond all question real. 

Living in a small community, you come 
to discern people's faults with painful 
clearness. When you see your friends 
every day, you see through them. No 
human character can bear being looked at 
so constantly and so closely. Under the 
microscope we all look rough, and discol- 
oured, and warped. And with those one 
is always seeing, one does not take the 
pains to conceal weaknesses which one 
does with a stranger. Unless a man is a 
very great fool, he knows quite well when 
he is saying or doing something foolish: 
and he keeps it back when with those with 
whom he stands on ceremony. But it all 
comes out in the familiarity of constant 
intercourse. Our own family, and our 
near kin, are part of ourselves : and we 
excuse their errors and follies as we do 
our own : even when we see their faults 
plainly, we like them hardly the less. But 
beyond that intimate circle, there arises 
the peculiar feeling which Scotch folks 
call a scurtner towards a friend who fre- 
quently annoys us by outbursts of vanity, 
or wrong- headed ness, or Bpitefulness, or 
littleness, or envy. Familiarity, as the 
proverbial saying has it, breeds contempt. 
And unless with very rare specimens of 
humanity, there is very much that is little 
and contemptible in human nature. The 
greatest fool every man has known, is him- 
self: and this because (in spite of the old 
Greek counsel) he knows himself better 
than he knows any other: Now in a* large 
place, when you feel that some little frailty 

of a really worthy man is obtruding itself 
on you so painfully as to make you forget* 
ful of his real worth, you can see less of 
him for a few weeks till you get over the 
painful impression. But there are places 
so small, that you must see your friend 
every day : even when it would be far 
better for both of you that you did not see 
much of one another for a time. 

Then, in a small community, people 
come to stand in such relations to one 
another that they may be said to be real 
enemies: in so far as that can be in the 
decorous restraint of word and deed which 
goes with our civilization. I used once to 
think that decent folks would have no en- 
emies. When I was a little fellow, I U3ed 
continually to hear public worship con- 
ducted by one of the best men, and that 
in a country where there is no liturgy. 
An ever-recurring petition was, " If we 
have enemies forgive them." It seemed to 
me, as a boy, that the petition was need- 
less. Who could be nis enemy? But, 
growing up, one thought differently. 
There are actual cases in which a person 
has only to know that you wish for such a 
thing to be done, to resolve to oppose that 
thing. Because A would fain have things 
go one way, B will push for the opposite 
way. Now, that is being an enemy, as 
permitted in this age. And much more in 
a little place than in a big will such enf 
mies be found. The scope is too large, the 
people are too many, in the big place, for 
the peculiar feeling which creates them. I 
could give curious examples; but that is 
exactly what 1 am not going to do. And 
the further ebullition of enmity which 
makes one man exult in the little annoy- 
ances which befall another, will hardly be 
found in its full maturity amid a large 
population and a wide acquaintance. 

And, though you do not like a man, and 
find that in him which rubs you the wrong 
way, you . can not draw wholly off from 
him, as you would in a large city. In the 
little town you must be constantly meet- 
ing : you can not choose your own circle 
of associates. You are of necessity 
thrown into frequent contact with persons 
whom you would not select for yQur 
friends. In a large place, if you discover 
in any man indications of a character 
which makes it impossible that you should 
respect or trust him, you can without awk- 
wardness drop his acquaintance wholly. 
But it is awkward and inconvenient not to 
be at least on terms of civility with a 
human being whom you must frequently 
pass in the street, and with whom you 
' must sometimes transact business. You 


era not indulge in the luxury of cutting 
dead even the person yon know to have 
been telling malignant falsehoods about 
yon, in print or otherwise. Then a cer- 
tain sense of insincerity arises in your 
heart when you treat with outward courte- 
sy, however reserved, one whom you know 
to be * cowardly enemy. Further, if you 
dislike a person's character and ways at 
all, yon will dislike that person very much, 
if he is constantly obtruded on you. He 
will become to you what the grinding of a 
hand-organ was to Mr. Babbage : what 
the creaking of wood rubbing on wood is 
to some people : the object or a vehement 
antipathy, which by continuance grows 
altogether unbearable. When I enter a 
beautiful cathedral close, it appears to me 
as the home of sacred quiet and kindli- 
ness: surely the souls that inhabit here 
must be calm, beautiful, and holy as their 
outward surroundings: what but peace 
and love can dwell in this abode of un- 
worldly repose and brotherly devotion? 
Nor do I mean to say that this is wholly ' a 
pleasant illusion. But in some cases the 
fact is far from the ideal. Envyings and 
Ftrifes, social bumptiousness and social 
indignation, worldliness of spirit and fool- 
ish extravagance, have entered even here. 
And if unfriendly relations exist at all, 
how embittered they must be by the con- 
stant presence of the disagreeable object ! 
To constantly hear the Litany sung by a 
man whom you esteem to be a humbug, 
must be a great provocation. There are 
those towards whom you can maintain a 
tolerably forgiving spirit only by keeping 
them out of your sight and hearing. 

Among those members of the little 
community who remain fast friends, perils 
arise which must be guarded against. 
One is, that there comes the tendency to 
use the same freedom of speech- toward* 
one another which exists in some outspoken 
and inharmonious families. Disagreea- 
ble things are plainly said : faults pointed 
•at with a confounded candour. There is 
even a disposition to rake up unpleasant 
subjects without any call. Now it has 
ever appeared to the writer that an exces- 
sive closeness of intercourse is not desira- 
ble, unless among those very closely re- 
lated by blood. The atoms which make 
up physical Nature are kept a good way 
apart, even in the substances which to the 
unscientific eye and touch appear the most 
soHd and homogeneous. This seems a 
teaching by parable. Even so, human be- 
ings ought to be kept in some measure 
apart by a certain reserve and a constant 
courtesy. Do not tell your friend that he 

UV19G AG*. VOL. XXVIII. 1305 

has made a fool of himself (however cer- 
tain the fact may be), unless you design 
that henceforth there shall be an undefined 
something between you, a little rift, which 
may spread till you are divided far. The 
recollection will be unpleasant of that 
over-frank judgment, even in an unmorbid 
mind. And I have remarked that in a 
small community many minds are morbidly 
sensitive and touchy. One never goes 
wrong in practising towards all around a 
studied courteousness of demeanour. And 
one has remarked how a man, little used 
to be treated so, and known for 'a hasty 
temper and a rough tongue, is gentled and 
humanized into a corresponding courtesy 
'and amiability towards another who scru- 
pulously and unaffectedly renders him his 
social due. 

The public-spirited man who desires in 
a small community to carry out any pub- 
lic improvement will find by experience 
what difficulties arise of the situation. It 
is not merely that the small community is 
apt to be old-fashioned in its likings, and 
have no mind for innovation : strongly 
holding that what was good enough for 
the fathers must be good enough for their 
children. Not merely that such a commu- 
nity is apt to regard with jealousy the 
proposals of a new comer from the outer 
world, esteeming it as an answer to all his 
arguments, that many of its members 
knew the place before he was born : the 
difficulty is a further one. It comes of 
the singular interlacing of private inter- 
ests, connections, likes and dislikes, jeal- 
ousies and enmities. C will not go heart- 
ily into any work, which he believes is in- 
stigated or supported by his enemy D. 
E will not support any reform which may 
affect the custom of the shop of his cousin 
F. 6 will solemnly declare that black is 
white, if the recognition of the fact that 
black is black would make things go hard 
with the man whose son is to marry his * 
niece. All this is very irritating to a 
downright person, eager that some good 
work be done, or at least that the work 
be estimated on its proper merits. It 
shakes your faith in the honesty and right- 
heartednes3 of human nature. It painful- 
ly convinces you what inferior motives 
practically impel the doings of many men. 
And if you manage your fellow-creatures 
into the doing of what is good and right 
by driving them according to their na*- 
tures ; by suggesting to the cantankerous 
man reasons fitted to sway the cantanker- 
ous, and to the foolish mail considerations 
which might have weight only with a fool; 
you may carry your point, and that a good 


point : but not without some, senae of self- 
degradation. It is by imperceptible de- 
grees that the tact and skill of an Arch- 
bishop of Canterbury 6hade into the cuu- 
ning trickery of the Artful Dodger. And 
near the line which parts the permissible 
from the mean, an honest man will begin 
to feel very unhappy. 

I do not linger on that which in a little 
place is sometimes felt as provocation : the 
tendency on the part of some of your 
neighbours to investigate all your proceed- 
ings, and make them the subject of much 
conversation and discussion. Gossip, if 
not false or ' ill-natured, is a needful and 
justifiable part of real life: it merely 
means that human beings are interested 
in the persons and events which are near- 
est to them. Yet there come seasons in 
which you are more sensitive to the little- 
ness of humanity than at other times : in 
which it makes you angry, while it ought 
simply to amuse you, to find anxious en- 
quiries made as to who diued with you on 
such a day, and even what you had for 
dinner : likewise why you did not invite 
A and B, each of whom is as good as you. 
But if you have so much good sense as to 
decline to listen to such petty talk, you 
will not be annoyed by it : and it comes 
to very little after all. Passing from this, 
let me sum up by saying generally, that 
if you live in a small community, it is ex- 
pedient that from time to time you should 
go for a little while away from it : if pos- 
sible, to a considerable distance from it. 
Thus only you will keep your mind in a 
healthy state. Thus you will see things 
in true perspective, and looking their true 
size. Thus only wilLyou keep it present 
to you, how modest your own dimensions 
are, and how small your weight I have 
known a really clever man, after living 
for some months together in the unhealthy 
moral atmosphere of a small place, burst 
out into exhibitions of arrogance and con- 
ceit so deplorable, as to be barely consist- 
ent with sanity. It is needful that you go 
where you may sit down and take in that 
the sphere wherein you live is not all 
the world ; and that its affairs are in fact 
not much thought or talked of by the ma- 
jority of the human race. And discern- 
ing this, you go home again quite resolved 
not to be drawn into small strifes, ambi- 
tions, and diplomacies, which are thorough- 
ly bad for soul and mind. To ed ucated and 
sensitive men, dwelling in little towns, 
London is a great and wholesome altera- 
tive. If I were a rich man, I would pro- 
vide an endowment which might send 
•every country parson in Britain to London 

for three weeks each spring. Just to walk 
about the streets, and behold one's un- 
known fellow-creatures, and see how big 
the place is, is to many an over-driven 
and over-sensitive mortal the moat pre- 
cious of medicinal gum. 

I have been setting forth moral rather 
than material considerations. But one 
cannot help thinking how in a little place 
one misses the material advantages (net 
without their moral consequences) which, 
come in a large community of the clubbing 
together of the limited means of a great 
number of comparatively poor people. la 
a lar^e city, there is everywhere a solidity, 
an appearance of wealth. As in a club, a 
congeries of men of very moderate re- 
sources are able to afford a palace, with 
the arrangements, the books, and the pe- 
riodicals, which only a millionaire could 
provide for himself, so is it in & great 
town. The very pavement of the streets 
is different. The water-supply is- better 
and more abundant. The shop* are in- 
comparably handsomer and better pro- 
vided. You have the great luxury of a 
first-rate bookseller, on whose tables you 
can see all the new books : buying a few, 
and seeing as much as you desire of many 
more. In the little place you may be 
thankful to have a railway at all: so 
thankful that you do not grumble at the 
wretched rickety wooden shed which 
serves for a station, the rattling carriages, 
the ill-laid rails which would make express 
speed destruction. You cannot expect to 
step into the luxurious and fluent carriage, 
which in nine hours and a half bears you 
four hundred miles; conveying you from 
Athens to Babylon. Neither can you, 
when you feel dreary and stupid, wander 
away and lose yourself in mazes of smoky 
street* in some noisy and squalid quarter, 
whence you return with a penitent senae 
that you have little right to be discontent- , 
ed. Most middle-aged men remember to 
have got good in that way. I remember 
talking with a very intelligent working 
man who abode in a little city, but had at 
one period in his life lived for some years 
in London, " What I liked about London," 
said he, was this : " that if a body was ill- 
ofS, you had only to go out for a walk and 
you would see some other body worse-off." 
The idea was sound, though awkwardly 
expressed. It was as when the Highlander 
said, " The potatoes here are very bad ; 
but, God be thanked, they are a great 
deal worse about Drutnnadrochit." 

On the whole, the little community is a 
school wherein, with certain disadvantages 
and certain advantages too, one may cul- 



trrate good temper, sympathy, patience ; 
forbearance with the faults of others : and 
the habit of occasionally remembering 
ooe'i ewn. A. K. H. B. 

From The St. James MogashM, 


Tif a peaceful pans of the Yosges, a few 
leagues beyond Maladrie, as you follow 
the Soar, you will find the village of 

It consists of about a hundred dwelling- 
houses that stretch along the banks of the 
river. Some are high, some low, aod all 
are roofed either w th old grey slate tiles 
or wood. Here and there a small bridge 
spans the water, over which children lean 
to watch whitebait swarm ronnd a worm, 
or to look at the long dark wavy green 
grass they call "cats' tails," or at the 
ducks swimming up the current with their 
broad yellow feet paddling oat behind 

Here do the children of the village 
trifle away their time for hours together; 
dressed in torn jackets and jagged trou- 
sers, with their hair all rough and their 
book-satchels hanging by a piece of twine 
to their belts; for though there is a school 
at Chaumes, the boys are never in a hurry 
to pet there. 

The next thing to be seen will be a wo- 
man holding a tubfui of clothes on her 
head. It is either Marie-Jeanne or Cath- 
arinette going to the wash-house. After 
this, the bullocks and goats file off, and 
old Miniqne, with his head stooping for- 
ward, and an axe over his shoulder, comes 
hurrying on to turn the water off on his 

Mr. le Cure next strides on to mass, 
with his black cassock looped up, and 
his three-cornered hat in hand : and thus 
people keep going and coming all day. 

These scenes can be viewed from some 
distance off, and best from the spacious 
green meadow amidst the palings and 
hedgerows that enclose bits of gardens, 
and on which linen is hung out to dry. 

On the opposite side of the main street 
rises the hill, covered with patches of 
barley, oats, rye, potatoes, and knotty 
weather-beaten apple-trees. I have been 
schoolmaster at Chaumes for fifty years, 
and 1 have never been able to induce 
owners to train their trees straight: The 
of them will not even bear of 

pruning and grafting, so things come np 
at random. The consequence is, that fruit 
is generally very sour at Chaumes ; but it 
gives satisfaction. This is the kind of 
vegetation that grows all the way up to 
the borders of the woods which cover the 
top of the hill. At eventide the latter 
throw their dense shade over orchard, 
village, and river. The last of daylight is 
always seen in a big white sheet on the 
fields, and it becomes fainter and fainter 
until it dies away and darkness sets in. 

A little before this hour the herdsman's 
horn is heard, and the pigs and goats rush 
down in search of their sheds in the vil- 
lage. Strange to say, these animals never 
mistake their homesteads, but stand grunt- 
ing and bleating at their respective doors 
until some one comes to let them in. By 
degrees all the flocks are brought in, and no 
other sounds break silence but the low 
croaking of toads and frogs at the water- 
side. This expires in time likewise, and 
small lights are seen moving about in huts, 
for it is supper time, and time to rest too, 
after a long day's toil. 

In two or three places spinning and 
knitting gatherings are held, the old 
church bell ringing out the hours spent 
over gossip, ghost-stories, and tales of 
witchery. These last until the old women 
of the party make the first move, when all 
take up their wheels or work, and part to 
go home to bed. 

This is life at Chaumes. 
Two or three hundred steps farther on 
stands the mill of Father Lazarus, with 
the water falling off its mossy wheels like 
crystal fringe, making a large pool stake 
and ripple below. 

Farther on still are the saw-yards of 
Frentsell and Gros-Sapin. 

When I was appointed schoolmaster at 
Chaumes, the mayor of the place was old 
Monsieur Fortin, and his deputy was Mon- 
sieur Rigault, keeper of the 4 ' Ox-foot " 
inn, but the Rantzau brothers exercised 
great influence over the municipal council 
by reason of their wealth. In some meas- 
ure they ruled it completely. 01 1 Rantzau, 
their father, had died a year before ; he 
had been a farmer, a dealer in timber and 
raw salt. He had gained plenty of money 
in his day, but, like the rest of us, could 
take nothing away with him, and left all his 
property to his three children, one of whom 
was Madame Catherine, the wife of Louis 
Picot, a brewer at Lutzelbourg; the two 
others were Jean and Jacques, who, un- 
fortunately, did not think their share had 
been rightly divided between them. 
This, at least, is what soon became apt 



parent, for the two brothers who had been 
fond of each other so long as their father 
lived — who had always stood up for each 
other, and who had married two sisters, 
the daughters of old Lefcvre, justice of 
the peace — could henceforth not endure 
the sight one of the other. 

Jean, the elder, was a tall bold fellow, 
full of pride and of the things of this world. 
By the will of his father, and because he 
was the first-born and had assisted the 
old man in his labour, he came into pos- 
session of the family house bequeathed 
unto him over and above his share after 
every thing else had been divided. This 
was not, strictly speaking, just; for if Jean 
had been a great help to his father in the 
raw salt business, Jacques had proved 
himself to be quite as active in every thing 
connected with the timber. 

Neither was there a finer house for miles 
and miles around than that of old Rant- 
eau. Appertaining unto it were out- 
houses, a garden that went down to the 
banks of the river, stabling for fifteen 
heads of cattle, barns for hay, straw, and 
provender of all sorts for a whole year, 
besides cellars, a wash-house, and a dis- 
tillery. Altogether it was a magnificent 
house, newly whitewashed, and all the 
shatters were painted green. , 

Jean was satisfied. It seemed quite 
natural to him that he should inherit his 
father's house, but the clause of the will 
by which he became master was not sat- 
isfactory to Jacques. 

* He made up his mind to have a good 
house too, and had one built just facing his 
brother's with nothing but the street and 
the two yards in front of each between. 
There they both stood; barn opposite 
barn, shed opposite shed, the stables facing 
each other, door to door, window to win- 
dow, the same sized space for dung-hill, 
fagots, and wood. It was a signal for open 
war between the two brothers. 

Jean considered it in this light at all 
events, but what annoyed him more than 
any thing was, that just three months 
later Jacques bought the big meadow of 
Guisi, the finest in the valley, and paid 
down twelve thousand francs ready money 
for it — a thing that never had been heard 
of before, and that probably never will be 
heard of again at Chaumes. 

On hearing this, Jean turned deadly 
pale ; but he said not a word, the Rant- 

They came and they went without seem- 
ing to know each other. 

Jean's wife gave birth to a little girl at 
about this time ; Jacques' wife had a boy. 
Meanwhile the villagers and people in. 
the valley were divided between these 
two men, siding with Jacques or Jean ac- 
cording to their pri.vate interests. 

In this divided state did I find Chaumes 
towards the end of the reign of Louis 
XVIII., when I was appointed schoolmas- 
ter in the place of Maitre Labadie, who 
had to give up his situation on account of 
his advanced age. I am indebted to him 
for many thing3, and especially for the 
hand of his daughter, who became my 
wife, and unto whom I owe the happiness 
of nearly fifty years' married life, and a 
family of excellent children. 

My father-in-law continued to live with 
us in the school-house, often assisting me 
in my labours and with useful advice. 

" Never meddle with the concerns of 
the village, Florent," he would say ; take 
up no man's quarrel ; try to be on pleas- 
ant terms with every body: do your duty 
at the school, church, and Maine, and, 
finally, be respectful to those who are in 
authority. This need not deter you from 
entertaining an opinion of your own; 
but never express it. This is the way to 
do a little good, and to live in peace with 
every body." Then the kind old man told 
me the story of the Rintzau brothers and 
their great hatred, advising me, further, to 
be cautious, as well in my own interests 
as that of others, for the children of Jean 
and Jacques would necessarily come at at a 
later period to my school, and the slight- 
est preference shown for one or the other 
would prove very prejudicial. 

The first year or two which a young 
man has to spend away from his native 
place are the most trying of any he has to 
go through in after-life. Happy he who 
meets with good advice at the onset! 
How many irreparable mistakes it averts I 
I must say I look back to my beginnings 
at Chaumes with grateful satisfaction. 
But my way of living here was totally 
different from that I had been accustomed 
to at my native place, which is a flat, even 
country, and therefore nothing like life in 
the mountains. 

My old master at Dieuze, in Lorraine, 
was a clever man for his days, and, being 
partial to me as a scholar, had taught me 

zaus being of too haughty a race to raise » to appreciate the simplest things observed 

a voice against one of their own family. 
From that; day the two brothers never ex- 
changed so much as a syllable, though 
they met at least twenty times a day. 

in Nature. He also gave me a great 
liking for plauts, insects, and taught me 
the little music I knew. 
I found these elementary notions most 



useful at Chaumes, and they often helped 
me on to persevere patiently through dry 
teaching at school. 

As soon as lesson-time was over I used 
to buckle on my herb-box, and climb the 
path up the hill. 

The furze in bloom, the pink heath, the 
innumerable wild plants growing to the 
rocks, the gaudy gold-coated and silvery 
flies, some covered with velvety down, 
others in silken sheen, their buzz as they 
swarmed in the rays of the setting sun — 
all I saw and felt, the higher 1 went, filled 
my very soul with joyous emotion. 

Forgetting time, I rambled on, picking 
samples here and there! and, not having 
much learning, I fancied I was always 
making new discoveries. When I reached 
the summit* I Btood under the ruins of the 
old castle among brambles and sprays of 
ivy a hundred years % old, having alt the un- 
der-branches shrivelled up, and the top- 
layers of a new bright green. As I was 
tho* sheltered, I would consider the calm 
valley below ; the mirrored surface of the 
river; the low roofs, all on a row; the 
ch arch-steeple ; the curate's house, with its 
hives and arbour; the mill; the distant 
saw-yards, already in the shade ; and, when 
I had run over each of these spots, I said 
within myself, — 

"You will spend all the rest of your 
life in this corner of the world. Look! 
this is the field of your future exertions in 
behalf of your fellow-creatures ; you will 
here bring np the children God may send 
yon, and, when your work is done, you 
will here rest in the Lord. Study; toil. 
For all you know, there may be a useful, 
benevolent man, remarkable even for ex- 
traordinary intellect, sitting among your 
bare-footed, poor, ignorant, ragged schol- 
ars, as abandoned as wild berries in the 
wood ! God looks not at any one's station 
in life ; He sows good seed where He likes. 
Yon can follow His example by doing good 
wherever you go — by every word you 
teach; Some of your lessons will fall 
among thorns ; many on hard rock ; but, 
providing a single seed strike in good soil, 
yon will be content." 

Thinking thus, I would be surprised by 
evening-fall, and dusk would find me coin- 
in" down to the village, full of the new 
plants I had gathered, wondering about 
the new insects I had pinned in my hat, 
trying to cla.«s them, not scientifically, for 
I had not the right books, and did not 
know enough without them, but according 
to the different families of the plants and 
Barnes in use at Chaumes. 

My father-in-law was ever on the look* 

, out for me at the door, and would exclaim 
good-humouredly, u Late again, Florent! 
Marie- Barb e has laid the cloth long ago, 
and the soup will be cold." 

" I am sorry for it, and that is a fact. 
Monsieur Labadie," was my reply on one 
occasion ; " your mountains are so full of 
beautiful things, it is a feast to be among 

" Well, so it is ; but come, let us go in 
to supper." 

There was Marie-Barbe, my wife, always 
glad to see me back, anjl so busy as a bee. 
After supper we talked botany over, and 
Father Labadie said, — 

*' Well, yes, Florent; I enter into your 

pursuits entirely In ray time it 

was the study of the learned; and up in 
the Vosges it was quite by mere chance if 
ever one heard of Monsieur Buffon, Linn 4, 
or Jussieu ; yet how splendidly we could 
have studied herbs in these mountaiusl 
No one seemed to think of us; and the 
science of herbs, which should be spread 
in the remotest boroughs, is all bound up 
in folios within the libraries of cities." 

As he talked he would get cheerful; but 
he always experienced a kind of grief 
when he thought of the many years lost 
by him in the midst of such treasures. 

His great hobby was music. 

We had a small piano, or clavecin rather, 
for there were only four octaves in it. It 
stood in our dining-room, and when it got 
late, after the shutters were bolted, Father 
Liabadie liked to draw his easy leather 
chair in front of it, place his broad feet 
on the pedals, and run his thin fingers over 
the keys. He could play requiems, alle- 
luias, and excelsis Deos, and accompani- 
ments fo the chanting he fancied he could 
hear a long way off, moving backwards and 
forwards, and lifting up his eyes in perfect 

He possessed a trunkful of very old 
music by dead German masters. He 
thought all the world of the pieces in this 
trunk; and they must have been very 
good a* he prized them, for Father La- 
badie was known to be the best Catholic 
organist far or near. The Lutherans have 
several good ones: they give themselves 
up to music, and take a pride in it. 

I had no hopes of becoming sucli a per- 
former as my father-in-law ; but, thanks to 
his excellent teaching, I soon knew as much 
as Litcher at Difo; that was enough to 
enable me to hold the organ at church even 
on solemn occasions, such as Confirmation 
Day, and in the presence of Mooseigneur 
de Forbin-Janson, the bishop of our 


chapter a. 

Amidst study and labour did the first 
yeara of my profession as schoolmaster 
•pass over at Chaumes. 

Marie- Barbe had just made me the father 
of a little boy, who had been christened 
Paul. Father Labadie seemed to spend 
the rest of his life, from that time forward, 
•over nothing but that child. Though a 
fine old man, he was getting infirm, and 
when he began to decline he fell off rap- 
idly. At first he would grieve us by weep- 
ing; then he became hard of hearing: 
gave up going to church ; and yet he was 
not unfortunate enough to turn childish. 
He had a wonderful memory. When he 
was asked in a loud, intelligible voice for 
any particular information concerning doc- 
vments at the Mairie, certificates of birth 
or decease, or about forest laws, or the re- 
suit of the deliberations of the Municipal 
Council assembled as far back as twenty 
years previous to the time spoken of, he 
would, after listening attentively, reply 
without hesitation, u xou will find what 
you want in such or such a drawer; such 
or such a shelf; or, at the back of the 
pigeon-hole of such or such a bureau." 

I think he knew his end was approach- 
ing; yet he felt inwardly happy to find a 
robust little fellow take up much of our 
Attention, and likely to fill his place when 
fee was gone. 

Putting aside his increasing weakness, 
we had every reason to be contented and 

I had succeeded Father Labadie at the 
school, the Mairie, and the church ; also as 
iand-measnrer and wood-felling overseer. 
The Commune paid me four hundred francs 
yearly, and what with chaunting, what 
with the christenings, deaths, weddings, 
Christmas presents, the fifty sous per 
month for each scholar in winter, and 
other odd trifles, our income came up to 
nearly one thousand francs.* 

I and my wife managed the school-house 
garden ourselves, and we made it supply 
us with vegetables all the year round. 
We also kept a pig, which BaUhazar, the 
herdsman, drove out acorning in return 
for his son's teaching. In short, every 
thing prospered, and I had occasion more 
than once to prize Father Labadie's advice 
concerning the wisdom of keeping out of 
other men's quarrels. 

Our curd, Monsieur Jannequin, took 
great interest in us. His favourite subject 
of conversation was his bees. I helped 

Forty pounds sterling. 

him take the oomb from his hives every 
autumn, at which season he always sent us 
some of his honey. He had returned to 
France after the emigration, and was full 
of experience, having seen a great deal of 
the world. As a preacher he was remark- 
ably gifted ; for he spoke slowly, and de- 
livered short sermons that abounded in 
plain common sense. The fervour of 
young priests who, like Father Tar in and 
the missionaries, travel over France, con- 
verting heretics, did not meet with his sym- 
pathy, and any mention of them used to 
make him shrug his shoulders with pity. 
I have sometimes been alone with him in 
the garden behind the presbytery, just 
after the postman has brought in the Ga- 
zette, and on these occasions I have noticed 
him run down the columns and chango 

" Monsieur Florent," he would say, rais- 
ing his hand prophetically, " these zealous 
young men will ruin every one of us. 
God above ! Is the experience of the aged 
never to benefit those who come after 
them ? Have the errors of the past, which) 
we have so cruelly atoned for, not enlight- 
ened any one ? What a misfortune 1 " 

Then he would stop all at once, and say 
"Let us think of something else I " 

Although Monsieur le Curd did not hold 
with too much zeal, he was very strict in 
the performance of his duties, and deserv- 
edly enjoyed the veneration of all too 
country around. 

Father Labadie breathed bis last in calm 
and peace, five years after my arrival at 
Chaumes. His death was the first real 
sorrow I had experienced in my new fam- 

Every inhabitant of the mountainous 
district attended the funeral, and it was 
one of my painful duties to have to play 
the mournful dirge sung at our church. I 
got through it as well as I could, with 
tears in my eyes, and stifled sobs choking 
me all the time. The worst was, I had, as 
chantre, to lead the procession to the village 
cemetery when mass for the dead was 

Nothing but firm reliance in God can 
comfort us in such trials as these ; reliance 
in Him who rewards the just man for a 
well-spent life here on earth, and who 
takes him to Himself when toil, grief, and 
care have been borne with fortitude. 

Our home was a dreary ono for a con- 
siderable time; grandfather's place waa 
empty, and we could not look at it without 
thinking he had gone for ever; that he 
could never come back again ; and that 
we should not hear his voice any more. 



Hie piano wan mute, for no one durst 
touch it, lest the chords would thrill and 
awaken our recollection of the old man 
too painfully. 

Oar bereavement had occurred in au- 
tumn, soon after the second crop was har- 
vested, at which time of the year my 
scholars were always sent to keep the 
cattle out on pasture, and very few chil- 
dren, only those of the rich, stopped in 
over their books. 

In my opinion there is nothing so dreary 
as a big school-room that is almost empty ; 
those who are left behind sit wearily look- 
ing up at the sun through the window- 
panes, wishing it was breaking-up day 
instead of harvest time, or they cavil one 
with the other, exchange signs, and try 
one with their unruly behaviour. There 
was little left for me to do beyond keep- 
ing them quiet, and when that was done I 
sat with my head in my two hands think- 
ing of Father Labadie. 

My melancholy dispersed when the 
children's shouts were again heard round 
the school-bouse, and they recommenced 
tumbling in, pulling off their woollen caps, 
and wishing me a pleasant "Bon jour, 
Monsieur Florent." 

With the old familiar "b-a ba,"more 
cheerful ideas obliterated my sombre 
thoughts, so much so, indeed, that not 
until I joined Marie-Barbe, sitting with red 
eyes by the side of our little one's cradle, 
did I become remindful of the good man's 
death — he who had loved us so tenderly. 

Nevertheless, we were months getting 
over it ; bat, after all, nothing is everlast- 
ing on earth, and, finally, our memory of 
the departed leaves nothing behind but 
hopes of a future meeting and unbroken 
love in another world. 

At the beginning of this same winter 
Jean and Jacques Rantzau sent their chil- 
dren, George and Louise, to my school. 

They were about the same age, between 
six and seven. Louise, who was Jean's 
daughter, had just lost her mother, and 
this rendered my task all the more respon- 
sible and touching. She was growing up 
fast, had beautiful, blue, intelligent eyes, 
with a soft expression in them, and an 
abundance of bright chestnut hair. 

Her step was light, and when she walk- 
ed out in her neat little cloak, holding her 
head erect, and looking about right and 
left, she was not unlike those pretty fawns 
which sometimes crossed our village as 
nimbly as the wind. 

Her cousin George, the son of Jacques, 
had a pale face, the great booked Rantzau 
nose, their brown crisp hair, and their 

heavy square chin. The stubbornness of 
the family could be read in his looks, and, 
truly, what he wanted, that would he have. 

Nevertheless, he was not gifted with his 
cousin's sharp wit, and she knew it, for 
she always had the last word, and rather 
looked down on him. 

I placed Louise in the little girls' divis- 
ion, which is separated from the boys' by 
a wooden railing between. I am compelled 
to say that, amidst the poor little creatures 
whose ragged clothes were so damp that 
they smoked by the stove, these two 
Eantzau children did not seem to be of 
the same species. Ah! misery is a very 
sad thing ; it not only depresses youth, but 
it gives it a down-trodden appearance. I 
do not speak of the difference of skins, of 
complexions, nor of trusting looks, which 
poverty and suffering so soon efface ; but I 
mean that the needy seem devoid of intel- 
lect likewise. What's the wonder ? What 
do the children of the wood-sawyer, feller, 
or rafter-man see and hear at home V They 
see their hard-working parents seated 
round nothing but sour milk aud potatoes, 
with their heads stooping forward, and 
their backs bent down by heavy burdens ; 
their arms hang wearily by their sides; 
their damp hair lies flat to their temples ; 
and they are even too worn out to say 
much beyond a word or so about timber, 
the felling, the snow that has rendered the 
mountain paths dangerous; something of 
Peter or Paul, crushed to death by acci- 
dent ; and that's all If the cure* did 

not preach about eternal life, the Almighty, 
and Christian duties on Sundays, these 
labour-worn people would ignore every- 
thing but cold, fatigue, and hunger. 

Within the dwelling-houses ■ of the gen- 
try, on the other hand, there is a spacious, 
clean, well-lighted and well-furnished hall, 
with wainscotiug that comes up to one's 
elbow on the walls all round, which snug 
apartment is called the stove-room. Here 
do father, mother, servants, and strangers 
come to and fro, in and out, from morning 
till night, talking at meals and at all times 
of their different business transactions and 
bargains, the news of the day, and of what 
is in their papers or letters. In this way 
do children of the well-to-do learn more 
than those of the poor are ever in the way 
bf knowing. 

Iu consequence of their great advant- 
ages, Louise and George improved rapidly ; 
at the end of their first month thev could 
spell; soon after that, they could put 
words together, then they got on to read- 
ing, and — strange as it was for our village 
— they could understand what they read 1 



I could not help taking to them more 
than to the others who did not improve, 
and gave me much more trouble. I enjoy- 
ed Questioning them and noting the won- 
derful progress they made. 

One thing grieved me concerning them; 
* they hated each other as their parents did. 
I could not praise George without seeing 
Louise pout her lips or pinch them togeth- 
er, and shut up her eyes as if she felt cross 
and sleepy. Neither could I Bay a word 
for Louise without finding George turn 
white with jealousy. The old people had 
probably set the children against each 
other by talking before them of the house, 
fields, and property that they would have 
had for themselves, if it had not been for 
the dishonesty of their brigand uncle, who 
had manoeuvred till he got the big part all 
to himself; and that a curse would fall on 
them and their descendants, if ever they 
made up the family quarrel and became 

I could detect the tares among the good 
seed, and I should have enjoyed pulling 
them up, if Father Labadie's advice had 
not always been uppermost on my mind, 
and I concluded that, after all, bad feelings 
came under the curfs supervision rather 
than under mine ; * and it would- be his 
business to correct them when the children 
were old enough to be instructed in 
religion for their first communion and con- 
firmation. Finally, I had hope in the 
prayers they would have to say together, 
especially the Lord's Prayer, with the 
sentence, " Forgive us our trespasses, as 
we forgive them that trespass against us." 

From Temple Bar. 


The chain of being begins with the ani- 
malcule and expands into the elephant : so 
it is with the chain of events. No action 
or accident of our lives is insignificant; the 
most trivial may be the germ of our des- 
tiny. When a child at nurse Ta.leyrand 
had a severe full. What event could pos- 
sibly be more inevitable or commonplace 
in a child's history ? It was not common- 
place, however, in this child's history, 
but for that fall he would have been sim- 
ply a noble of Cancien regime : profligate, 
indolent, voluptuous, an unit amongst his 
herd : expiating his sins at last in the ob- 
scurity of exile, or more probably beneath 
the knife of the guillotine ; and thus he 
would have dropped out of the world 

leaving no trace behind, and history would 
have known him not. What that fall made 
of him and did for the world is to be 
found in the annals of four revolutions. 

Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-P£rigor6% 
eldest son of the Comte de Talleyrand, 
was born in Paris in the year 1751. The 
Comtes de Talleyrand were descended 
from a younger branch of the sovereiga 
counts of PeVigord, one of the most ancient 
and illustrious families of France, and 
whose haughty motto, Re que Dieu,* they 

• The father of Charles Maurice was a sol- 
dier, his mother a lady-in-waiting at Court. 
In the very hour of his birth the infant was 
consigned to the care of a nurse, who re- 
moved him at once to her home in a dis- 
tant part of the country, where he was 
reared very little differently to her own 
peasant children. This was the fashion- 
able way of disposing of infantine encum- 
brances in those days ; their advent was a 
disagreeable accident which condemned the 
fine ladies to a month's seclusion ; but with 
that the trouble ended, the accident was 
given into the hands of some peasant nurse, 
and was thought of no more until it was 
of an age to be trained for a soldier, or 
a priest, or a courtier, as the case might be* 

When scarcely a twelvemonth old, he 
was lamed for life by a fall. Eleven years 
passed away, during which time the fond 
mother had not only never seen her off- 
spring, but was even ignorant of the acci- 
dent that had befallen him. About this 
period his uncle, the Bailli de Talleyrand, 
a naval captain, returned to France after 
an absence of many years. Being desirous 
of seeing his nephew, he made a journey 
to the remote village to which the boy had 
been exiled. It was in the depth of winter 
that he undertook this expedition, and the 
snow lay thick upon the ground. As he 
neared the place he met upon the road a 
blue-eyed, fair-haired boy, dressed like a 
peasant, to whom he offered some silver to 
guide him to Mother Regaut's (the nurse's 
name was Regaut). Delighted at the 
thought of the promised reward, the boy 
eagerly undertook the service, but he was 
very lame, and could not keep pace with 
the horse, so the good-natured bailli lifted 
him into the saddle. His wonder and con- 
sternation may be imagined when, upon 
arriving at the cottage, he was informed 
that in his poor little lame guide he saw 
the nephew he had come to seek. Not 
another hour did Charles Maurice remain 
beneath that roof: the bailli took the boy 

• God alone Is our king. 



back with him to Paris. Such was the child- 
hood's days of the future great European 
diplomatist, who was destined thereafter 
to bold the destiuies of France within his 

From the village he was transplanted to 
the College D'llarcourt, where, all igno- 
rant as he was when he entered it, he soon 
carried away the first prizes, and became 
ultimately one of its most distinguished 
scholars. His mother now paid him an 
occasional visit, but as she was always 
accompanied by a surgeon, who pulled, 
and cauterized, and tortured the boy's leg, 
her visits were more terrible than pleas- 
ing. But all the pulling, and cauterizing, 
and torturing effected no good — the lame- 
ness was incurable. The head of the 
house of Talleyrand must be a soldier — 
such was the tradition of the family, and 
it had never yet been departed from. A 
cripple could uot be a soldier. It was an- 
nounced to him that his birthright would 
be transferred to his younger brother. 

*• Why so ? " asked the boy. 

"Because you are a cripple" was the 
cruel answer. 

Whatever of good might have existed 
in his original nature those words crushed 
it out; the flavour of their bitterness 
lingered in his heart unto the last days of 
his life. From the hour in which they 
were spoken his disposition gradually 
changed ; he became taciturn, callous, and 
calculating ; a cynic, a heartless debauchee, 
sparing neither man nor woman that stood 
in the path of his interest or his pleasure. 
He had not been spared, why should he 
spare others? It was not for nothing 
he earned thereafter the title of U diable 

Being a Talleyrand, as he could not be a 
soldier, he must be a churchman. From 
the College d'llarcourt he was sent to St. 
Sulpice and afterwards to Sorbonne to 
complete his studies. He made no secret 
of his dislike for the profession he was 
thrust into, and testified his utter unfit- 
ness for it by a life of gambling and de- 
bauchery. Iu 1773 he was received into 
the church. Thereafter he was known as 
the Abbe* de Perigord, and proved a most 
admirable addition to the dissolute and 
atheistical clergy of the age. 

In that same year he was presented at 
Court, and became an habitue of Du Barry's 
boudoir. One evening, at one of her gay 
assemblies, while a number of young gal- 
lants were amusing the lady by the recital 
of scandalous stories, and their own amor- 
ous adventures, the Abbe' was observed to 
be silent and melancholy. 

" Why are you so sad and silent ?" de- 
manded the hostess. 

u Helas madame la comlesse, jefaisais une 
reflexion bien mdlancolique ; c'est qu'a Paris 
il est plus facile a" avoir des femmes que des 

The King was so, charmed with this bon 
mot when it was repeated to him. that he 
at once presented the witty abbe with a 
very handsome benefice 1 From this dates, 
his rise in the church. 

Iu 1780 he was appointed agent-general 
of the French clergy, a post which placed 
in hia hands the entire administration of 
the ecclesiastical revenues, and which he 
filled with consummate ability. But, as 
though in constant protest against the 
wroug that had been done Him, and the 
uncongenial profession to which that 
wrong had consigned him, the immorality 
of his life was as flagrant as ever ; his pro- 
fane epigrams were repeated in every 
drawing-room ; his scandalous love adven- 
tures were in every mouth. 

Although Louis the Fifteenth and his 
mistress held a licentious Wit to be an ad- 
mirable recommendation for church pre- 
ferment, Louis the Sixteenth was quite of 
an opposite opinion, and when the bishop- 
ric of Autun, for which the Abbe* had long 
been intriguing, fell vacant (1788), it was 
only after a, lapse of four months, and at 
the dying request of the Comte de Pen- 
gord, who probably felt a late compunc- 
tion for the wrong which had been done 
to his son, that the King reluctantly con- 
sented to bestow upon him the coveted 

Here is his portrait sketched by a con- 
temporary at this period : " Picture to 
yourself a man thirty-three years of age, 
handsome figure, blue and expressive eyes, 
nose slightly retrousse, complexion delicate 
almost to pallor. In studying the play of 
his features we observe upon his lips a 
smile, sometimes malignant, sometimes 
disdaiuful. Studious of his personal ap- 
pearance, a coquet in his eccelesiasticai 
toilet, but frequently changing the costume 
of his order for that of the laity, irreligious 
as a pirate — performing mass with an 
unctuous grace — the Abbe* Perigord finds 
time for all; he appears sometimes at 
Court, but oftener at the Opera. He 
reads his breviary, the * Odes of Horace,' 
and the ' Memoirs of Cardinal de Retz,' — 
a prelate whose qualities he greatly es- 
teems. If he meets Narbonne, Lauzun, 
Boufflers, Segur, and the Bishop of Cha- 
lons in the house of Madame Guirnard, he 
will sup with them. Ordinarily fond of 
his bed, he will at a need pass two or three 



nights consecutively m bard work. As- 
sailed by creditors, closing his doors to 
the importunate, never promising without 
restrictions, obliging through oircum- 
stanoes, sometimes through egotism ; 
greedy of renown, more greedy still of 
riches; loving women with senses, not 
with his heart; calm in critical positions; 
haughty to the great, suave to the humble ; 
pausiog in a work upon finance to write a 
billet doux ; neither vindictive nor wicked ; 
an enemy to all violent measures, but 
knowing, if necessary, how to use them." 

A u other contemporary thus epigram- 
matically describes him : " He dressed 
like a coxcomb, thought like a deist, and 
preached like a saint." 

At the assembling of the States Gen- 
eral he at once espoused the popular side. 
Like Mirabeau, his own order had rejected 
him ; from them he had nothing to hope ; 
distinction in any path of life rather than 
in the church was preferable to his taste ; 
while, with the ambitious spirit that ani- 
mated all, whether gentle or plebeian, in 
that age, everything seemed possible to 
him in the new order of things which was 
at hand. No proof of the utter effeteness 
of the ancien regime is so conclusive as the 
strange phenomenon of so many of its own 
body helping to destroy it. La Fayette, 
Mirabeau, and Talleyrand, all three of the 
noblest of the aristocracy, pioneered its 
destruction before Robespierre, Marat, or 
Danton were heard of. On the 15th of 
June, 1789, after the nobles and clergy 
had demurred to deliberate in the same 
chamber with the tiers e'tat, Mirabeau pro- 
posed that the latter without further de- 
lay should declare itself " the representa- 
tives of the French people/' On the 22nd 
of June, seven days later, thanks to the 
unwearied zeal of the Bishop of Autun, a 
majority of the clergy joined the tiers &at. 
In his very first speech he proposed and 
carried that the States General should 
henceforth be fused into the National As- 
sembly, the title already assumed by the 
representatives of the people, and that its 
discussions should be unrestricted.* 

A little later, and La Fayette gave the 
signal for the destruction of the Bastille 
and created the National Guard. The 
noble radicals began their work bravely 
indeed ! 

Day by day the principles of the Bishop 
advanced more and more, and day by day 
he became more and more popular; he 
was a member of the Cordeliers and the 

• The electors, in tending their representative! to 
the States General, had restricted the dlsousalon and 
action to certain subject*. 

Fenilletons ; his speeches on finance 
everywhere the theme of the highest laud- 
ation ; but his crowning act was to carry 
the motion for the surrender of all ecclesi- 
astical property to the use of the nation. 
Long and stormy was the debate, but on 
the 2nd of November the decree was 
passed. Early in 1790 he brought for- 
ward a manifesto to advocate the abolition 
of all privileges, to advocate church re- 
form, and a vast plan of public education. 
On the 16th of February in the same year 
he was named President of the Assembly, 
a post which even Mirabeau could not at- 
tain until one year later. 

After a short deliberation, he gave m 
his hearty adherence to the Act called 
*• Civil Constitution of the Clergy," con- 
secrated new bishops to replace those who, 
from scruples of conscience or the fear of 
Papal thunders, had refused the oath, and 
was, on the 1st of May, 1791. excommuni- 
cated by his Holiness the Pope for his 
pains. Having of late looked rather 
towards political than ecclesiastical pre- 
ferment, the Bishop's course of action was 
immediate and decisive ; he availed him- 
self of the opportunity to cast off his irk- 
some fetters, at once seceded from the 
church, and was thereafter known simply 
as M. de Talleyrand. 

But his sagacity foresaw and prophe- 
sied to what events were hastening. Writ- 
ing to a lady friend he says, " If the prince 
depends upon the affection of the people, 
he is lost ; if the people are not guarded 
against the character of the prince, I fore- 
see terrible misfortune — torrents of blood 
flowing through years to efface the enthu- 
siasm of a few months. I foresee the in- 
nocent and the guilty involved in the same 

destruction Mirabeau believes with 

me that we are marching too quickly 
towards a republic. What a republic 1 
composed of thirty millions of corrupted 
souls. I fear that having attained to that, 
the fanatics will only begin to light their 
torches, the anarchists to erect their scaf- 
folds. Who knows how many amongst 
us may escape the fire or the lanterne t I 
must arrange my affairs" i a such a manner 
that I shall not be without resources what- 
ever happens." 

The political creed of Mirabeau and 
Talleyrand was the same; both were of 
the party of order; both advocated the 
principles of constitutional monarchy and 
rational freedom ; but with those points 
all similarity between the two men disap- 
pears. The one would have martyrized 
himself to have enforced those principles : 
the other would not have imperilled his 


fortunes for an hour to have maintained lam. The letter remained unanswered 

any principles. Upon his death-bed Mira- aud unnoticed.* 

bean sent for Talleyrand, as the man by From England he sailed for the Uuited 
tvmpathy and creed the most fitted to be States of America. At Washington he 
the repository of bis plots and secrets, was well received, and, Ion ring to revenge 
Bat with that mighty genius was swept himself upon the English Government, he 
away the last bulwark of order, aud so actively associated himself with the Anti- 
cautious and calculating a man as the ex- j Anglican party. But he soon grew weary 
bishop was not the one to oppose the invad- of his new home, and was about to set sail 
ine forces of mob rule. for the East In liesf when he received the 
Twice in the year 1792 was he sent on news of Robespierre's downfall and of the 
diplomatic service to London — the second growing desire of France for a settled 
time arriving with an autograph letter government. He at ouce determined upon 
from Louis the Sixteenth to George the returning to his native land. 

Third. But the excesses of the revolu- 
tion were every day rendering its princi- 
ples more unpopular in England, and the 

The most active of his friends in Paris 
was Madame de Stael, who was deeply at- 
tached to him, and through whose inter- 

letter, like every other act of the unfortun- cession with Joseph Marie Chenier he ulti- 
ate monarch, being supposed to have been mately obtained his recall. It was in the 
dictated, produced no effect. The object l latter part of 1795 that he once more re- 
of the mission was to conclude an alliance ' turned to Paris. The feign of Terror 
between France and England ; but while | had passed away, and the Reign of Society 
the negotiations were actually pending ' had once more taken its place. To the 
came the newa that the King was deposed olubs had succeeded the jeunesse dore*e. 
— news which at once terminated dip) o- j Freed from the horrible phantom, the 
matic relations between France and all bloody realities of the guillotine, the Pa- 

foreign countries. 

Except by Fox and the Whigs, Talley- 
rand was received but coldly in this coun- 

risians were once more gai aud sans soucL 
There were no distinctions of rank, no 
grand seigneurs, no rich people, no artifi- 

try. When presented at St. James's, the cial ceremonies — everybody lived together 
Queen disdainfully turned her back upon : in a happy state of equality, their homes 
him. " She did right," he said afterwards, ' the parks, the promenades, and the public 
"for her Majesty is very ugly.' 1 gardens. 

Upon his return to Paris he found that Upon his arrival Talleyrand was every- 
the revolution had so far outstripped him where welcomed as a wit and a gentleman, 
that France was no longer a safe abode for was elected a member of the National In- 
any man of birth and position. He lost stitute, where he delivered two admirable 
no time in obtaining a passport from Dan- j lectures upon the commercial relations be- 
ton and in returning to London for the tween England and America, and three 
third time. A paper which implicated him I weeks afterwards was named Minister of 
as having been in secret correspondence Foreign Affairs. In the Directory, which 
with the Court being found in the iron , was composed of Carnot and Barthe'lemy, 
chest, a decree of accusation was pro- Red Bepublioans — and of Larevei 11 ie re- 
nounced against him by the Convention, Lepaux, Re w bell, and Barras, moderates, 
and bis name was included in the list of ; Talleyrand attached himself to Barras ; 
emigres. Until 1794 'he resided in London. j 

Here he mingled with the emigres with a' , •*?»«*• ** every reason to before that the Eng. 
_: *ui *~ r.*...-^ ..~ M «.:«~~~ A : A . *u.» Ikb Government was perfectly jus title i In expelling 

view, possibly, to future contingencies that hlm . Wnen pleading the Convention for the vl 

might happen to the Bourbons, and was verbal of Talleyrand'* accusation, Chenier made s 

well rAcoirod in certain circle*, narticularlv declaration to the effect that he had found among* 
well received in certain circles, particularly j^^., p^^ a correspondence which indicated 

that of Lansdowne House. In general that the exile had been an accredited agent and spy 
society be was noted as cold in manner, ' of the itepablic during the whole time of hi* sojourn 
.:i»~4 - ~«.--*.:~.,« f,v.. M «i ./»•»+;. i ;•;«,» . in England. It is true that the correspondence was 
tilent, sententious, formal, scrutinizing ; never •produced, but that he obtained hi* pauport 

but amongst the more genial few this mask from Danton under some such conditions U a oon- 

»., na .♦ »airi» and hft wm thft wit And jeoture well warranted by the character of the lat- 
was cast aside, ana ne was we wit ana f that TaUevrand t0 \ ^^ extMlt MmM 

polished man of the world. In the Jauu- those conditions I* equally in harmony with his owa 

ary of the year last named he received, character. . . . ,_ 

'i,. .« ^ ai:~« n:n -« A .«t.. ** A ~».ii.»;/t«i t The vessel in which he was to sail was never 

under the Alien Bill, an order of expulsion hwd of ftom tne tlme ln wn!on 8he left tlw shoref 

as a Jacobin. In a letter addressed to of America. Had he been a passenger on board her 
\s>n\ ClranviWa ho d»<*lfl.rpH that his reai. Napoleon might never have reigned, and how differ- 

LK)ra uranvilie ne aeciarea tnat nw resi ent ^ m wh » t lt iB mi ht ^f^ thlrty veari of , 

deacon England had no reference to poll- European history! Another instance of tho gravity 
tics — he had sought there simply an asy- of so-called insignificant events. 



and when Pichegru, a, Robespierrean at 
the head of the Assembly, was conspiring 
for the triumph of the extreme party, he 
it was who planned the coup d'etat by which 
Barras seized upon Pichegru and Bartbel- 
emy and put Carnot to flight. But the 
advantage thus gained was unly tempo- 
rary ; -the constant defeat of the French 
arms by the Allies put the Directory in 
bad odour, and Talleyrand, attacked by 
the violent republicans a* a noble and au 
emigre, resigned his appointment. 

Talleyrand first met Napoleon during 
the latter 's visit to Paris after the Peace 
of Catnpo Formio. Upon his return from 
the Egyptian campaign, Napoleon's ambi- 
tion was to become oue of the Directory. 
But his age was a prohibition that could 
not be surmounted. From their first 
meeting, Talleyrand had assiduously culti- 
vated the friendship of the great general 
in whose daring genius and iron will he 
foresaw the best ruler for France. The 
Directory was weak and divided; at any 
moment mob rule might rise again trium- 
phant; a despotic genius alone could cre- 
ate strength and order out of the chaos to 
which all things had been reduced by the 
Revolution. " Whe/i society is powerless to 
create a government^ government must create 
society?' was one of his profoundest max- 
ims. And to carry out this maxim he now 
devoted all the powers of his subtle genius. 

The Directory would not admit Napole- 
on among its members; therefore the Di- 
rectory must be destroyed. The first step 
was to gain over Si eyes who had succeed- 
ed Pichegru as the head of the Five Hund- 
red, and who had also succeeded Rawb^ll 
in the Directory ; Sieyes gained over Da- 
cos, and, by a pre-arranged plan, both re- 
signed ; the casting vote remained with 
Barras, a weak obstacle in the hands of 
Talleyrand; a body of troop3 overawed 
the malcontents, and — the Directory was 
no more. 

Three consuls were appointed — Buon- 
aparte, Duco?, and Sieyfes.* The arch- 
plotter was rewarded with the portfolio of 
the foreign ministry, and from that time 
firmly attached himself to the fortunes of 
the man whose elevation he had secured. 
The confirmation of the consulship for life, 
and the fouuding of the Order of the Le- 
gion of Honour, were chiefly indebted to 
his exertions. In the debate upon the 
latter, he spoke these profoundly true 
words: "The present age has created a 
great many things, but not a new man- 

* The two latter were afterwards soooeeded by 
Cambaodrto and Lebrun. 

kind ; if you would legislate practically 
for mankind, you must treat men as what 
they have always been and always are. • . 
In reorganizing human society, you must 
give it those elements which you find in 
every human society." 

The treaties of Lundville and Amiens 
were among the first and most successful 
of those diplomatic triumps with which his 
fame as a minister is chiefly associated. 
But there appears to have been nothing 
Machiavellian about his mode of conduct- 
ing negotiations; on the contrary, he is 
said to have always spoken in an open 
straightforward manner, never arguing, 
but always tenaciously Bticking to the prin- 
cipal point Napoleon said that " he always 
turned round the same idea." 

About the same time he was reconciled 
to the Church of Rome. The Pope wrote 
him an autograph letter, containing a dis- 
pensation that enabled him to marry. The 
lady was one Madame Grandt, whom lie 
had first met during his exile in London, 
and who afterwards openly lived with him 
in Paris. Napoleon, expressing himself 
somewhat scandalized at the immoral con- 
nection, commanded that he should either 
marry her or cease to live with her. Ac- 
cordingly, upon the arrival of the dispen- 
sation, the marriage was celebrated with 
as much privacy as possible. The lady was 
very beautiful, but far from clever. Sev- 
eral stories are told of her betise ; the best 
known is the following : Having read De- 
foe's " Robinson Crusoe," she was one day 
introduced at dinner to Sir George Robin- 
son ; thinking him to be the veritable Cru- 
soe whose adventures she had been read- 
ing, . bug puzzled him exceedingly with 
questions about his shipwreck and the des- 
ert island, winding up the absurd scene by 
asking particularly after his man Friday I 
When surprise was expressed at his choice 
of a wife, Talleyrand replied, " A clever 
wife often compromises her husband, a stu- 
pid one only compromises herself." But 
Madame Talleyrand was not always stupid. 
When Napoleon, in congratulating her 
upon her marriage, expressed a hope that 
the errors of Madame Grandt would be 
sunk in Madame Talleyrand, she replied, 
" In that respect I cannot do better than 
follow the admirable example of your 

After Napoleon's coronation there grad* 
ually arose between him and )iis great min- 
ister a coldness which, in the course of 
time, grew upon the former into an intense 
dislike. It is impossible, in so brief an ar- 
ticle, to more than glance at, without at- 
tempting to explain, the causes of this 



change. In the first place, Talleyrand was 
opposed to the marriage with Marie Lou- 
ise ; in the second place, he was opposed to 
his master's schemes of uuiversal conquest, 
for his sagacity forewarned him that one 
serious reverse would crumble his vast em- 
pire iuto dust. Such counsels excited only 
the indignation of a man drunk with vic- 

Was Talleyrand implicated in the mur- 
der of the Due d*£nghien, and in the 
scheme of the Spanish invasion ? These 
are " historic doubts " that have been much 
disenssed by historians and biographers. 
At Elba, Napoleon distinctly declared that 
those, the worst deeds of his life, were 
counselled by his foreign minister; but 
Napoleon is not an undeniable authority; 
besides at that time he was posing him- 
self as a hero of virtue before the eyes of 
Europe, and was desirous of shifting the 
harden of his crimes unto other shoulder *. 
Sach an act of impo itic and useless blood- 
shed was utterly opposed to the cold cal- 
culating character of the diplomatist, 
which, with all its vices, contained noth- 
ing of cruelty or vindictivenes3 * With 
the Bourbons he always desired to be on 
good terms ; another reason which argues 
eqoaily against his participation in either 
act Daring the Spanish war, however. 
Napoleon wrote him several confidential 
letters couched in a strain which scarcely 
bears out his, Talleyrand's, assertion that 
be had strongly opposed the expedition. 
The most probable solution of the doubts, 
and that most consonant with his charac- 
ter, may be that, although emphatically 
averse to both those acts of lawless power, 
he closed his eyes and passively submitted 
to the inevitable. 

Created Prince of Benevento, enormously 
ly rich, and broken in health, Talleyrand 
availed himself of the rupture with his Im- 
perial master to resign his office. He did 
not however entirely retire from diplo- 
macy, but continued from time to time to 
superintend several important negotia- 
tions. u It is the beginning of the end ! " he 
said to Savary wheu he heard the news of 
the burning of Moscow, and the subse- 
quent disasters of that terrible campaign. 
But although he foresaw that the star of 
Napoleon was setting fast, he was not 

• Amongst all the unsparing Insult* and oppro- 
brium that Napoleon heaped upon hU minister's 
head, in that terrible quarrel between them which 
pfrce<W the latter** roljniatlon. no reference wm 
Bade 10 tub shameful deed. Surelj In that hour of 
owroTer liable rage and malice the Emperor would 
not hare forgot ten thU the blackest accusation that 
be could have hurled aralnst him? For a full ac- 
count of tub celebrated seen© see Sir Henry Bui- 
wer*s " Historical Characters." 

guilty of the cold-blooded tergiversation 
that has been imputed to him. His urgent 
counsel was " Peace with Russia at any 
price.'' When the Allies were marching 
upon Paris his advice was that the Empress 
should remain in Paris as the only means 
of saving the dynasty. But Joseph Buona- 
parte decided the question by producing a 
letter from his brother, in which it was 
commanded that in the event of such a 
crisis as that in which they were then in- 
volved Marie Louise should at once retire 
iuto the provinces." * M Now what shall I 
do t " he said to Savary. " It does not suit 
eoerij one to be crushed under the ruins of 
an edifice that is overthrown ! " 

From that hour Talleyrand beoame the 
arbiter of the destinies of France. The 
Emperor Alexander, who took up his 
abode at the house of the Prince, said: 
" When I arrived in Parut I had no plan — 
/ referred everything to Talleyrand ; he held 
the family of Napoleon in one hand, that of 
the Bourbons in the other — / took what he 
gave me." " It must be either Buonaparte or 
Louis the Eigliteenth" was his counsel. 
The result of the conference was a procla- 
mation refusing to treat with any member 
of Napoleon's family. This at once de- 
stroyed the plan that had been mooted 
of a regency under Marie Louise, and se- 
cured the accession of the Bourbons. 

4i How did you contrive to overthrow the 
Directory, and afterwards Buonaparte him- 
self?" inquired Louis. "Mon Dieu, Sire I 
I have douc nothing for it — there is some- 
thing inexplicable in me that brings mUfsr- 
tunes upon all those who neglect me." At all 
events, Talleyrand did good service to his 
country in pressing forward a constitution 
to limit the power of that King of whom, 
and of the family, he truly said, that 
in their exile they had learned nothing 
nor forgotten nothing. 

Created Grand Almoner and Minister of 
Foreign Affairs, the Prince was despatched 
to the congress at Vienna with secret in- 
structions to endeavour to sow discord be- 
tween the Allies, and thus break up the 
bond of hostility so inimical to the inter- 
e rts of France. But the escape of Buona- 
parte from Elba scattered all these plots 
to the winds. 

Napoleon made overtures to win back 
Talleyrand to his cause, but neither inter- 
est nor inclination swayed the diplomatist 

* Napoleon wrote thus: " If Talleyrand wiehes 
the Empress to remain in Part*, it is to betray her 
. . . beware qf that man ! *' Was thfe merely an 
ebullition of rail ? Was it a suspicion founded upon 
certain premUes? Or was the warning warranted 
by ascertained facts T 



in that direction; the Emperor had re- 
peatedly and grossly insulted him, added 
to which he knew that both Franca and 
Europe were surfeited with war, and that, 
irresistible as was the storm for the time, 
it could not last. So he retired to Carls- 
bad on pretence that his health required 
the waters. 

Thj Hundred Days passed away; but 
Louis had determined upon the minister's 
disgrace. Talleyrand knew this, and, pre- 
ferring to t>ke the initiative, waited upon 
the Kiug at Ghent, the day after Waterloo, 
to request permission to remain at Carls- 
bad. " Certainly M. de Talleyrand, I hear 
the waters are excellent," was the reply. 
But His Majesty could not so easily rid 
himself of the obnoxious diplomatist. 
The Duke of Wellington informed him 
that if he wished for the influence of Eng- 
land he must have a man at the head of 
the government in whom England could 
confide. The party of the Constitutional 
Legitimists, through Guizot, demanded 
that a cabinet Bhould be formed with M. 
Guizot at the head; so on the day after 
the polite dismissal at Ghent, M. de Tal- 
leyrand received a mandate to join the 
King at Cambrai. But he had his revenge 
in refusing to form a ministry until the 
King signed a proclamation, the pith of 
which was an acknowledgment of the 
errors of the late reign. 

To the fallen party Talleyrand behaved 
with the utmost clemency, providing num- 
bers of those who wished to quit France 
with money and passports, and reducing 
the proscription list to half the original 

He retained the premiership of France 
until the 24th of September, 1815. But 
his government was weak, the King hostile. 
The Emperor Alexander had declared that 
the Tui lories could expect nothing from 
St. Petersburg while M. Talleyrand re- 
mained at the head of affairs,* added to 
which the minister foresaw the mischievous 
efforts that would accrue from the violent 
Royalist reaction that was at hand, and 
preferred tendering his resignation to en- 
countering the coming storm. 

From 1815 to 1840 he took no active 
part in politics, unless it was to protest 
against the Spanish war, and to utter a 
defence of the liberty of the press. Much 
of his time was spent at Valency upon his 
estate. In Paris his drawing-room vied 
in magnificence, and in the brilliancy of 

• The Emperor Alexander conceived an inveter- 
ate dUlike to Talleyrand for tbe neglect that Itas- 
sian iu te rents received at UU hand* during the con- 
frew at Vienna. 

its society, with the royal palaces— being 
a second and almost greater court Hero, 
paying homage to the great diplomatist, 
assembled all the beauty, all the wit, all 
the riches, and all the intellect of the 
Restoration. But he was no longer the 
gay abMy the petit-maitre of Du Barry's 
boudoir, with whom every woman was in 
love. The picture of him drawn by Lady 
Morgan in 1810 is not an attractive one. 

" Cold, immovable/* she writes, " neither 
absent nor reflective, but impassable; no 
colour varying the livid pallor of his face, 
no expression betraying his impenetrable 
character. For the moment one could not 
tell whether he were dead or living; 
whether the heart beat or the brain 
throbbed no mortal observer could verify ; 
from the soul of that man the world is 
disdainfully excluded ; if one might hazard 
a conjecture after what we have seen, it is 
to recognise in him the enigmatical sphinx 
who said * Speech was given to conceal 
our thoughts. 1 Neither the most tender 
love, the most devoted friendship, nor any 
community of interests would make that 
face, which can only be compared to a book 
in a dead language, speak." 

Another writer, pursuing the same theme, 
says, " To baffle his penetrating sagacity 
you must not only not speak, but not 
ihink. It was not only by his language 
that he concealed his .thoughts, but by his 

On account of the numerous bona mots, 
and epigrams that claim him for parent 
Talleyrand is commonly thought to have 
been a brilliant conversationalist and a 
flippant wit. Lamartine, however, has 
given us quite a different picture in the 
following passage : " A taste for lively 
sallies and epigrams has been attributed to 
him which he did not possess. He was, on 
the contrary, slow, careless, natural, some- 
what idle in expression, always infallible 
in precision. His sentences were not 
flashes of light, but condensed reflections 
in a few words. 1 ' 

On the first day of the revolution of 
July he made no sign. On the third he 
sent his secretary to St. Cloud to see if 
the King were still there. Upon being 
informed of the departure for R imbouillet, 
he dispatched a paper to Madame Ade- 
laide at Neuillet, containing these words : 
" Madame can put every confidence in the 
bearer, who is my secretary." " When 
she has read it," he said to the secretary, 
44 let it be burned or brought back to me ; 
then tell her that not a moment is to be 
lost -•• Duo d'Orleans must be here to- 
morrow ; let him take the title of Lieutea* 



ant-General of the Kingdom, which has 
been already accorded to him; the rest 
will come." 

Upon the accession of Louis Philippe 
he undertook the embassy to St. James', 
and obtained the recognition of England 
for the new Sovereign. Thus he did for 
fourth time change the dynasty of France 1 
His last diplomatic labours were to tide 
orer the Belgian difficulties and to assist 
in the formation of the quadruple alliance. 

The end was coming fast. To gratify 
his family, bnt not from personal con- 
viction, he consented to make his peace 
with the church. During his last hours 
his rooms were filled with the flower of 
Parisian society. Louis Philippe himself 
visited his deathbed. Those last hours are 
well described in the following quotation : 
"M. de Talleyrand was seated upon the side 
of his bed, supported in the arms of his 
secretary. It was evident that death bad 
let his seal upon that marble brow ; yet I 
was struck with the still existing vigour 
of the countenance. It seemed as if all the 
life which had once sufficed to furnish the 
whole being was now contained in the 
brain. From time to time he raised up 
bis head, throwing back with a sudden 
movement the long grey locks which im- 
peded his sight, and gazed around; and, 
then, as if satisfied with the result of his 
examination, a smile would pass across his 
features and his head would again fall 
upon his bosom. He saw death approach- 
ing neither with shrinking nor fear, nor 
vet with any affectation of scorn or de- 

He died May 17, 1838, aged 84. 

" He possessed a mixture of the firmness 
of Richelieu, knowing how to select a 
party, the finesse of Mazarin, knowing how 
to elude it ; the restlessness and factious 
readiness of the Cardinal de Retz, with a 
little of the magnificent gallantry of the 
Cardinal de Rohan,* 1 says a French writer ; 
thus connecting him, by comparison, with 
all bis great predecessors in statecraft. 

Gaizot thus sums up his character: 
" Out of a crisis or a congress he is neither 
skilful nor powerful. A man of court and 
of diplomacy, not of government, and less 
of a free government than any other ; he 
excelled in treating by conversation, by 
an sgreeableness of manner, by the skil- 
ful employment of his social relations with 
isolated people ; but authority of character, 
fecundity of talent, promptitude of resolu- 
tion, power of eloquence, sympathetic in* 
telligence with general ideas and public 
passions, all these great means of acting 
upon mankind at large be entirely wanted. 

• • • • 

Ambitions and indolent, flattering 
and disdainful, he was a consummate cour- 
tier in the art of pleasing and serving with- 
our servility ; supple and amenable to the 
highest degree when it was useful to his 
fortunes; always preserving the air of 
independence ; an unscrupulous politician, 
indifferent to the means and almost to the 
end, provided that it secured his personal 
success; more bold than profound in his 
views, coldly courageous in peril, adapted 
for the grand affairs of an absolute govern- 
ment ; but in the great air and the great 
day of liberty he was out of his element, 
and was incapable of action." 

Talleyrand could neither love nor hate ; 
he was a passionless man ; he never com- 
mitted a cruel or viudictive action, and 
never a purely motiveless generous one. 
Every thought, feeling, plan of his nature 
revolved round one great centre — self. 
He could not, ate a great statesman, have 
created a broad, comprehensive scheme of 
government; his own petty interests ever 
dwarfed his ideas. lu him the reasoning 
faculty was largely developed, the imagin- 
ative not at all ; he trusted to no deduc- 
tions, to no speculations that were not 
rigidly derived from his own personal ex- 
periences : hence his views, although won- 
derfully correct, were never all-comprehen- 
sive. He understood mankind section ally ; 
he could almost infallibly foresee how each 
section would act singly; but of that 
" touch of nature that makes the whole 
world kin " — of subtle links that 
can mass mankind as a whole, and by 
which all great rulers have swayed their 
worlds, be knew nothing. Because no 
process of mathematical reasoning, no 
experience, however extended, can deduce 
them; their existence can only be revealed 
by the inspiration of those creative facul- 
ties of the mind that revealed to Shake- 
speare a Macbeth and a Hamlet. 

He worked for the greatness of Franco, 
because upon the greatness of France de- 
pended the greatness of Talleyrand. He 
was purely a cynic — the well-being of 
mankind never for a moment entered into 
his calculations. To him the world was a 
chess-board — mankind the pieces; he 
ranged his kings and his queens, his bish- 
ops and his generals, and played them one 
against the other; when the game waa 
exhausted and the sovereign was encom- 
passed by enemies beyond all hope of 
escape, he cried " Checkmate," and began 
the game afresh. It was said of him, 
" Like a cat, he always falls upon his feet ; 
cats do not fellow their masters* chey are 
faithful to — the house, 9 ' 



His rices were those of the age in which 
he was educated; his licentiousness, his 
cynicism, his scepticism, his selfish con- 
tempt for mankind, were learned in the 
boudoir of Da Barrv. In reason and in 
action, he was of the nineteenth century ; 
in thought and feeling, he was of the 
ancien rigime. His liberalism had been 
learned in the school of Voltaire ; he ac- 
cepted the advance of political ideas as a 
necessity, but with no sympathy. u The 
thoughts," he said, " of the greatest num- 
ber of intelligent persons in any age or 
country are sure, with few more or less 
fluctuations, to becotne in the end the pub- 
lic opinion of their age or community." 
And he always yielded to public opinion. 

While attached to any government, he 
served it faithfully and zealously ; and in 
all his tergiversations he scrupulously 
retained the outward forms of decency, 
reserving to himself a respectable excuse 
for his defection : " / have never kept fealty 
to any one longer than he has hvnself been 
obedient to common-sense" he said. 

The most brilliant of his talents was a 
marvellous and almost prophetic foresight, 
in proof of which I extract the two follow- 
ing quotations from his writings. The 
prophecy contained in the first is rapidly 
coming to pass; that contained in the 
second has just been wonderfully fulfilled : 

'•Upon the side of America, Europe 
should always keep her eyes open, and 
furnish no pretence for recrimination or 
reprisals. America grows each day. . She 
will become a colossal power, and the 
time may arrive when, brought into closer 
communion with Europe by means of new 
discoveries, she will desire to have her say 
in our affairs, and put in her hand as well. 
Political prudence then imposes upon the 
government of the Old World to scrupu- 
lously watch that no pretext is given her 
for such an interference. The day that 
America sets her foot in Europe, peace and 
security will be banished for many years." 

"Do not let us deceive ourselves; the 
European balance that was established by 
the congress of Vienna will not last for 
ever. It will be overturned some day ; 
but it promises us some year 3 of peace. 
The greatest danger that threatens it in 
the future are the aspirations that are 
growing universal in central Germany. 
The necessities of self-defence and a com- 
mon peril have prepared all minds for 
Germanic unity. That idea will continue 
to develop until some day one of the great 
powers who make part of the Confedera- 
tion will desire to realize that unity for its 
own profit. Austria is not to be feared, 

being composed of pieces that have no 
unity among themselves. It is then 
Prussia who ought to be watchel; she 
will try, and if she succeeds ail the con- 
ditions of the balance of power will be 
changed ; it will be necessary to seek for 
Europe new bases and a new organization." 

From London Society. 




One winter's evening, a party of college 
friends had assembled together, and the 
conversation turned upon Shakspeare, and 
upou the different characters in his plays, 
which were all drawn with such astonish- 
ing truthfulness that each one could name 
an Othello, a Hamlet, or a FaUtaff, aa 
among the persons they had chanced to 
meet, — " And I, gentlemen," said our host, 
" have known a King Lear." And he be- 
gan his narrative. 

'* I passed ray early youth in the country, 
in the domain of my mother, a rich Rus- 
sian landed proprietor in the government 
of X The most striking impres- 

sion that has remained upon my memory, 
is the person of Martin Petrovitch Khar- 
lof, our nearest neighbour. In my life I 
never saw any one like him. Imagine a 
man of gigantic stature, with an enormous 
body, upon which was set. without any ap- 
pearance of neck, a monstrous head, sur- 
mounted by a tangled mass of greyish, 
yellow hair, almost joining his shaggy eye- 
brows. On his sunburnt face was a broad, 
flat nose, little blue eyes, and a small 
mouth. His voice was hoarse but sono- 
rous. The expression of his face wa3 not 
disagreeable ; there was a certain grand- 
eur in it, but so strange, so extraordinary. 
And then, what arms, what legs, what 
shoulders ! Summer an I winter Kharlof 
wore a kind of tunic of greenish cloth, con- 
fined at the waist by a Circassian belt. I 
never saw him wear a cravat. Eta breathed 
slowly and heavily like a bullock, and 
walked noiselessly. His Herculean strength 
inspired the respect of all the country 
round, and various legends were circula- 
ted relating to it. It was affirmed that one 
day, on meeting a bear, he felled it to the 
earth with his fist ; and that, on another 
occasion, having surprised a peasant in 
his orchard, in the act of stealing his bee- 
hives, he flung him over the hedge, to- 



getberwith the horse and cart he had 
brought to carry away his plunder. But 
Kharlof did not pride himself on his physi- 
cal strength so much as upon his birth, 
his position, and the mental superiority 
for which he gave himself credit. My 
mother received him with special kind- 
ness, for he had saved her life, twenty 
years ago, by stopping Iter carriage on 
the edge of a deep ravine into which the 
horses had fallen. The shafts and harness 
▼ere broken, but Kharlof never left his 
hold of the wheel, though the blood was 
starting from his finger-nails. It was my 
mother who had given him his wife, an 
orphan reared in her own house. She 
died young, leaving two daughters, the 
eldest of whom was married. 

"Kharlof, was a good landed proprietor. 
Of the obedience of his peasantry it were 
idle to speak. Large and heavy as he was, 
he never went on foot, but drove a low 
droski, drawn by an old, decrepid horse, 
bearing the scar of a wound it had re- 
ceived in battle. Behind the droski sat 
always his little Cossack boy, Maximka. 

"I have already said that my mother 
treated Kharlof with respect. She saw in 
him a kind of devoted giant who, if needs 
be, would not hesitate to fight a whole 
army of revolted serfs. Besides, he was 
loyal, never borrowed money, never drank, 
and, if he was deficient in education, was 
not wanting in intelligence. Who would 
have thought this giant, so confident in 
his own powers, was subject to fits of mel- 
ancholy? They would come on without 
any apparent cause, and he would then 
shut himself up in his room, and call his 
Cossack hoy to read or sing to him — the 
colossus Kharlof feared death. 

■* Men of great physical power are gen- 
erally phlegmatic, but this was not his 
case. His wrath was easily aroused, and 
no one had the power of more readily ir- 
ritating him than the brother of his do- 
ceased wife, a contemptible little being, 
half buffoon, half parasite, who lived with 
as. His name was Bitschkof, but ho al- 
ways bore the sobriquet of Souvenir. 

I was anxious to see Kharlofs house, 
and one day proposed to return with him ; 
it was situated on the top of a hill. We 
entered the courtyard. On one side was 
an old habitation with thatched roof, on 
the other a newly built house. * See, 1 
uid Kharlof, ' in what a hovel my father 
lived, and look at the palace I have built 
for myself.' It was so slightly built, it 
looked like a castle of cards. Five or six 
dogs, each one uglier than the other, sa- 
lated ns with furious barkings. 'These 

are our shepherd dogs,' said Kharlof ( of 
the true Crimean race. Be quiet, you 
rascals, or I wiil hang you all.' 

" A young man in a long nankeen coat 
appeared at the doorstep of the new house, 
and reverentially assisted his father-in-law 
to alight. 'Anna,' called Kharlof, 'the 
son of Natalia Nicolavna condescends to 
visit us. We must entertain him. Ar- 
range the table immediately. Where is 
little Evlampia? ' 

"'She is not at home; she is gone to 
the fields to gather corn-flowers.' Evlam- 
pia was the younger daughter, and her 
father's favourite. In a few minutes all 
was ready. Surprised at the rapidity with 
which Kharlofs orders were executed, I 
followed him into the dining-room, where, 
on a table covered with a white-patterned 
red cloth, was laid out the repast, consist- 
ing of curds, cream, wheaten bread, and 
powdered sugar, mixed with cinnamon. 
While I was eating, Kharlof fell asleep. 
Anna stood before me perfectly motion- 
less, her eyes fixed upon the ground, and 
through the window, I could see her hus- 
band leading my horse up and down the 
courtyard, polishing wi,th his hands the 
curb chain which he had detached from 
the bridle. 

"My mother did not like Kharlofs 
eldest daughter. She thought her 
proud. Towards my mother, she was 
cold and reserved, though she had placed 
her at school, found her a husband, and 
presented her on the day of her marriage 
with a thousand roubles and an Indian 
shawl. Anna was the terror of the wives 
and daughters of the peasants, 

"Kharlof woke up. 'Anna,' he said, 
' play something on the piano, that pleases 
these young gentlemen.' I turned my 
head, and saw the, pitiable semblance of a 
harpsichord in the corner of the room. 

"'I obey, father, but I can play nothing 
which would interest the gentleman ; and, 
besides, the strings are all broken.' 

"'Then,' said Kharlof, ' Volodka* shall 
show you the granary,' calling to his son- 
in-law, who was still walking my horse up 
and down. Vladimir Slotkine was an 
orphan whom my mother had sent to the 
village school, and afterwards married to 
Anna. She called him her little Jew, and 
his hooked nose, hlack eyes, and red lips 
were quite of the Oriental type. A thirst, 
for gain was the leading feature in his- 

" In one of the turns of the road, I mot 
the second daughter of Kharlof. A wreath-. 

• The dlminotlro of Vladimir. 

living AGJC. 





of corn-flowers encircled her head. We 
saluted each other in silence. Evlampia 
was less beautiful than her sister, but of a 
different stamp. Tall and strongly made, 
everything in her was on a large scale — 
head, limbs, hands, teeth, and, above all, 
her eyes of a dull blue with heavy eyelids. 
This monumental being was a true daugh- 
ter of Kharlof. Her plait of fair hair was 
so long she was obliged to twist it three 
times round her head. There was some- 
thing wild, almost ferocious, in the ex- 
pression of her eyes. ' She is untameable, 
of Cossack blood/ said Kharlof. In my 
heart, she intimidated me; this colossal 
being too closely resembled her father. 

" One day, towards evening, in the 
month of June, Kharlof was announced. 
My mother was astonished, as he never 
paid such late visits. When he entered 
the room, he threw himself upon a chair 
near the door, and looked so pale, the ex- 
pression of his face so disturbed, that my 
mother exclaimed, * Speak, speak; some- 
thing has happened, lias your fit of mel- 
ancholy returned V ' 

" Kharlof knit his brow. ' No, it is not 
my melancholy ; that comes on at the full 
of the moon. Allow me to ask you one 

Sue3tion, madam, What do you think of 
eath V ' 

" ' Of what ? ' said my mother, somewhat 

" 1 I have just had a nocturnal hallucina- 
tion,' he said, in a low tone, ' a nocturnal 
hallucination,' he repeated, ' I am a great 
seer of visions/ Kharlof gave a deep sigh, 
and continued, ' About a week; back — it 
was exactly on the eve of St. Peter — I 
laid down to rest myself, and fell asleep. 
Suddenly, I saw enter my room a black 
colt, which began to gambol and grin at 
me with his teeth. And then, this same 
colt turned round and gave me a kick on 
the left elbow, in the most sensitive part, 
and I awoke. My left arm was powerless, 
and so was my left leg. It is paralysis, I 
said to myself. By degrees circulation re- 
turned, but a creeping sensation ran 
through all my joints, and as soon as I 
open the palm of my hand, it begins 

" « But, Martin Pctrovitch, you have been 
only lying upon your arm when asleep.' 

" * No, madam, it is not what you are 
pleased to say. It is a warning I have re- 
ceived; it is the announcement of my 
•death. Consequently, I come to tell you 
tmy intentions without loss of time. Not 
wishing that death should take me una- 
wares, I, the humble slave of the Almighty, 
have determined to divide, in my lifetime, 

all my property between my two daugh- 
ters, Anna and Evlampia.' 

" ' A reasonable idea, only it appears to 
me you are in too great a hurry.' 

*• ' And as I desire in this same affair,' 
continued Kharlof, ' to observe the neces- 
sary legal forms, I beg of your son Dintri, 
and to my relation, LUtschkof, I prescribe 
it as a duty, to witness the accomplishment 
of the formal act, and the giving over pos- 
session to my daughters Anua and Evlam- 
pia ; which act is to be accomplished the 
day after to-morrow, at noon, in my owu 
domain of Jeskovo, with the participation 
of the authorities who have been invited 
to attend.' Kharlof had great difficulty 
in delivering thU formal speech, which lie 
had evidently learned by heart. 

" ( Is it yourself,' asked my mother, * who 
has prepared this act of division ? ' 

*• ' Yes, and I have sent it in ; and the 
tribunal of the district has received the 
necessary order to attend.' He rose slow- 
ly to go. 'But wait,' cried my mother, 
' Do you really make over everything to 
your daughters, without any reservation ? ' 

" * Certainly, without reserve.' 

" * And where will you live ? ' 

'* • Where will I live V why, in my own 
house, as I have done till now. What 
change would you have ? ' 

4< * But, are you sure of your daughters, 
and of your son-in-law ? ' 

*• ' Is it of Volodka you speak ? of that 
beggar? I will make him do as I wilL 
What power has he V And my daughters I 
they will feed, clothe, and house me till my 
death. Is it not their most sacred duty ? ' 

" * Assuredly ; only — excuse me for say- 
ing so, Martin Petrovitcb — your eldest 
daughter is full of pride, and the second 
has the look of a wolf.' 

" ' Natalie Nicolavna 1 ' exclaimed Khar- 
lof, ' what are saying? Good heavens! 
They, my daughters, wanting in obedience 1 
an idea not to be dreamt of. Whatl re- 
sist a father! and incur the curse that 
would await them. They who have passed 
their lives in trembling submission, and of 

a sudden to " a suffocating cough here 

seized Kharlof, and my mother hastened 
to compose him. 

" ' Only, I cannot understand,* she urged, 
' why this immediate division. After you, 
the property will go to them. I suppose 
your melancholy is the cause of all this.' 

" ' Ah,' returned Kharlof, with some irri- 
tation, ( you always throw iny melancholy 
in my teeth. It is perhaps a force from 
above that now acts upon me. I make 
this immediate division because I will it. 
I, of my own person, by my own powur, 



fix what ah all henceforth belong to each ; 
and each of them haying received my gift, 
shall feet grateful for it, and faithfully ex- 
ecute the will of their father and benefac- 
tor.* Here Kharlof s voice faltered. *l 
wish yon good morning, madam, and you 
sir/ he said, turning to me ; * I shall have 
the hononr of seeing you the day after to- 
morrow at mv house.' 

"My mother looked at Kharlof as he 
vent away, and shook her head. 'This 
promises no good,' she murmured. 

u On the day appointed, our family 
coach, drawn by four horses and driven by 
oar head coachmen, a stout, patriarchal 
fignre, with long grey beard, drew majesti- 
cally up to the door. The importance of 
the act Kharlof was about to accomplish, 
and the solemnity of his invitation had re- 
acted upon my mother, and she ordered 
this state eqnipage, and desired us to ap- 
pear in full dress to do honour to her pro- 
teg& In half an hour we reached the 
house; the dog saluted us with his howl- 
ing, and the numerous children of the ser- 
vants, who generally swarm in the court- 
yard*, with wooden crosses round their 
necks, had all disappeared. Slotkine re- 
ceived ns at the threshold. We entered 
the room, in the middle of which sat the 
motionless form of Kharlof; he had put 
oo bis militia jacket, a bronze medal was 
on bis breast, his sword at bis side, his left 
hand was placed on its hilt, while his right 
rested upon a pile of papers on the table. 
He did not stir, he appeared even not to 
breathe. He scarcely pal u ted us, but, 
pointing to a row of chairs, desired us to 
take our places. On the rfght were his 
two daughters in full dress ; Anna in a 
green gown and a yellow belt, Evlampia in 
rose colour and cerise. On the left sat 
the priest, an aged man, whose sad eyes, 
worn cassock and ragged boots betokened 
a life of poverty and labour. Next to him 
were the attorney and the ispravnik, or 
head of the police of the district. I was 
seated near Souvenir, and my mother's 
steward, Lizinski, beside me. When we 
were all placed, Kharlof raised himself to 
bis full height and began, * I have invited 
jou, gentlemen, because I feel I am grow- 
ing old ; my infirmities oppress me. f have 
received a warning, and the hour of death, 
uyoa know, comes upon us as a thief in the 
night; in consequence of which, I do not 
wish that death should take me unawares. 
I, the slave of the Almighty, 9 and he re- 
peated, word for word, the phrase he had 
wed to my mother. * Conformably to the 
decision I have taken/ he continued, point- 
ing to the pile of papers on the table, * this 

formal act has been drawn np, and yon 
shall hear, point by point, my intentions. 
Approach/ says Kharlof to his son-in-law, 
who stood in an humble posture at the 
door, * read, it would fatigue me.' 

" Slotkine took the paper, and began to 
read with a clear but tremulous voice. 
The shares of the sisters were fixed with 
the most minute precision. From time to 
time Kharlof interrupted the reading, 
* Listen, Anna, this is for yon, as a reward 
for your zeal. Of that I make you a 
present, my little Evlampia.' The two 
sisters bowed, and Kharlof gazed on them 
with unmoved gravity. The seignorial 
manor (that is, the new house) was assign- 
ed to Evlampia, the younger daughter, 
according to ancient usage. Kharlof re- 
served to himself the right of occupying 
the room he then inhabited, and also 
assigned to himself his complete mainten- 
ance, and an allowance of ten roubles a 
month for his clothing. The list clause 
in the deed be read himself, t That these 
wishes of a father may be accomplished by 
his daughters religiously and unchanged, 
as a law of the Almighty ; for after Him, 
I am their father and their head, and have 
no account to render to any one, any more 
than I have ever rendered. And if my 
daughters carry out my will, my fatherly 
benediction shall be on their heads, but rf 
they fail to carry out my will — which 
heaven forbid — my curse will fall upon 
them now, henceforth, aud to all eternity/ 
Kharlof closed the paper and waved it 
over his head. Anna threw herself upon 
her knees, and struck the ground with her 
forehead. 'And you, Evlampia?' said 
Kharloff. She reddened, and also bowed 
herself to the earth. ' Now rise and sign/ 
said Kharlof. ' Sign here, I am grateful 
and accept, Anna ; here, I am grateful and 
accept, Lvlampia.' The two women sign- 
ed, as directed. A minute's silence fol- 
lowed; Kharlof let a sob escape, and then 
said, in a low voice, * Now all is yours.' 
His daughters and son-in-law exchanged 
looks, and approaching, kissed him upon 
the arm between the elbow and the shoul- 
der. The ispravnik then read the legal 
act, and, advancing upon the doorstep 
with the sisters, announced the eveut to 
the peasants of Kharlof, enjoining them 
submission to their new proprietors — an 
admonition he might have dispensed with, 
for I never saw more humble countenances, 
or peasants more tutored to obedience, 
than those of Kharlof. Dressed iu patched 
caftans and tattered tunics, their waists 
tightly confined by their belts, as is re- 
quired on solemn occasions, they stood 



motionless as statues of stone, and each 
time the ispravnik addressed them, they 
in ado a profound obeisance. Notwith- 
standing the entreaties of the ispravnik, 
Kharlof refused to show himself with his 
daughters. * My subjects/ he said, ' will 
obey my will without my presence ; ' but 
as if to exhibit his power for the last time, 
he suddenly put his head out of the win- 
dow, roared out, in a stentorian voice, 

* Obedience ! ' and hastily closed the case- 
ment. The peasants appeared stupefied. 

" At last came the time for the repast. 
When the inevitable bottle of champagne 
appeared — champagne made on the banks 
of the Don — the iipravnik proposed the 
healths of the new proprietors and that 
of the magnanimous Martin Petrovitch 
Kharlof. At the word magnanimous, Slot- 
kine gave an enthusiastic cry, and rushed 
to embrace his benefactor. Then occurred 
a disagreeable incident. Souvenir sud- 
denly rose, and with a fiendish laugh, 
exclaimed, 'Magnanimous! magnanimous, 
indeed; we shall see how he feel) when he 
is turned out, bare-backed, into the snow/ 

* What are you raving about, fool?' said 
Kharlof, with contempt. 'Fool I' replied 
Souvenir; 'we shall soon see who the fool 
is P ' How dare you insult our revered 
benefactor?' cried Slotkine; 'you kuow, 
if die had the slightest wish, he would not 
hesitate to tear up the act of donation he 
has so generously granted U3.' 

444 But that would not prevent • your 
turning him out in the' snow/ said Souve- 

44 ' Silence 1 * cried Kharlof, in a thunder- 
ing voice. 'If I wore to strike you, 
Bitschkof, a heap of dirt would alone re- 
main where you now stand. And you, 
young cur/ he said, turning to Slotkine, 
'bold your tongue, and presume not to 
put in your nose where you are not called. 
If I, Martin Petrovitch Kharlof, had de- 
cided upon this act, who can destroy it; 
who, in the whole world, can oppose my 
will ? » 

"'Martin Petrovitch/ began the attor- 
ney, 'you have just accomplished a great 
action ; but if — which heaven forbid — 
instead of the gratitude which is your due, 

you should meet with some great affront 


"I glanced my eye upon the sisters. 
Anna appeared to devour the words he 
was speaking. 1 never saw the face of a 
woman more wicked and more venomous, 
yet more strangely beautiful. Evlainpia 
had turned away ; a smile more contemp- 
tuous than ever was on her lips. Kharlof 
rose to- speak, but his voice forsook him. 

He struck the table with such violence 
that everything rattled in the room. 

"' Father/ Anna hastened to say, 'that 
gentleman little knows us to speak thus. 
You are wrong to let it make you angry/ 
Kharlof looked at Evlampia, but she re- 
mained stolidly silent. ' I thank you, 
daughter Anna/ said Kharlof, in a low 
voice; 'I rely upon you and upon your 
husband. As for you, sir, you are not 
made to judge Martin Kharlof; your in- 
telligence does not reach so high. The 
thing is decided; my decision will not 
change. I am no longer master here ; I 
am a visitor; and as such I use my privi- 
lege to retire.' He turned round, and 
walked slowly out of the room. 

'• Tiie next day Kharlof came to dine 
with my mother, who referred to the inci- 
dents of the preceding day. * Yes/ said 
Kharlof, 'something passed a little serious, 
but what I have upon my heart is not the 
idle words of Souvenir, but the bearing 
of Evlampia. She was a stone — a real 
statue, bhe feels nothing. Why did she 
not say to herself, my father must be very- 
ill, must feel his end approaching, thus to 
give us up all he has ; but not a word, 
not a look ; she bowed to the ground, but 
not in gratitude/ 

"' Why, Kharlof/ said my mother, 'you 
seem to complain ; you begin to repent 
and be afraid of the step you have taken.* 

44 This wounded him to the quick. All 
his pride arose. 'lam not among those 
who complain or are afraid. This earthly 
globe shall be dissolved before I Fail in my 
word, or that I fear or regret what I have 
done. As for • my daughters, they will 
never depart from their obedience to their 
father to all eternity/ 

" The death of her brother-in-law called 
my mother away, and it was three months 
before we came back to our home. 

" The first news my servant gave me, on 
my return, was that large flocks of wood- 
cocks had arrived, and that they were 
plentiful in the birch woods of Jeskova, 
the domain of Kharlof. I started directly, 
and had a good day's sport. On my 
way homewards I saw a peasant plough- 
ing near the wayside, and immediately 
recognized in the miserable, starved beast 
he wa3 belabouring, the favourite animal 
Kharlof U3ed to drive. 

4i 'Is Martin Kharlof dead/ I inquired, 
' that you have his horse V ' 

* ; ' Oh, no/ he answered, ' but it has been 
taken and sold. Many things have hap- 
pened during your absence. Mr. Slotkine 
is master now/ 



14 « And Martin Petrovitch ? '' 

" ' He bos become a mere cipher. Some 
fine morning he will be turned out of 

"When I went in I found something had 
disturbed my mother. She sent suddenly 
for Lizioski, and said, ' Send a carriage to- 
morrow morning for Mr. Kharlof, and de- 
sire hitn to come here, as I hear he has no 
longer one at his disposal, and tell him 1 
must absolutely see him. Tell, also, Slot- 
kioe, I order him to appear before me ; 
mind, I order him.' 

••'Martin Petrovitch will not obey,' 
vhispered Souvenir; 'you cannot iinagiue 
▼hat he has become.' 

u Uii prediction was verified. My 
mother wrote him a letter with her own 
hand. lie seut for answer, written upon a 
piece of dirty paper, 4 Before heaven, I 
cannot — shame would kill mc. Let ine 
disappear, thank you ; do not torment 

u Slotkine's interview with my mother 
did not occupy a quarter of an hour. She 
declared he should never a^aiti enter her 
presence ; and * if Kharlof s daughters dare 
to present themselves — for they have im- 
podencc for anything,' she said, 4 show 
them the door. Thai miserable Jew,' she 
continued, 4 whom I have taken out of the 
mire to make a ma 1 of, has the audacity 
to tell me 1 have no right to interfere with 
what does not concern me, and that Mar- 
tin Petrovitch is treated with too much 
indulgence — the ungrateful little toad ! ' 

44 Determined to see Kharlof, 1 again set 
ont with my gun to Jeskova. Suddenly I 
heard step* behind me, and Slotkine came 
out of the thicket. III*. face bore no trace 
of the obsequious humility with which, 
four months back, he was* polishing the 
curb of my bridle when walking my horse 
np and down his father-in-law's court-yard. 
4 Have you killed many woodcocks?' he 
a:ked. * You are aware you are shooting 
in our wood ; but I give you leave. Your 
aether was very angry with me ycsterd.iy, 
aod would hear of no explanation. I de- 
clare solemuly it is impossible to treat 
Martin Petrovitch otherwise ; he is quite 

'• * But why have you sold his horse ? ' 

* i4 WhyV A tiue question I What use 
was it ? Only to cat hay without profit. 
If Martin Petrovitch wishes to go out he 
has only to ask ; we never refuse him, un- 
less the horse is at work. Then there is 
that Utile vagabond Cossack,' he continued. 
'Martin Petrovitch complains wo have 
taken hiiu from him. What use was he to 
lis? Now we have apprenticed him tj a 

saddler ; and when he has learned his trade 
he will pay us a yearly sum.' 

" * Who, then, now reads to Martin Petro- 
vitch ? ' 

" ( Read I What an idea, to read at his 
age I He had but one book, and that, I 
am thankful to say, has disappeared.' 

" * And who shaves him now ? ' 

" Slotkine assumed an affable laugh, as 
if it were a good joke, and replied, 4 No 
one ; at first he singed his beard with a 
candle; now he lets it grow. Martin 
Petrovitch is clothed and fed — what can 
he want besides? lias he* not declared 
that he desires nothing more in this world, 
but what is for the good of his soul ? Be- 
sides, ho ought to recollect that, put it 
which way you please, all now belongs to 
us. He complains we do not pay his al- 
lowance. What does he require money 
for? he wants for* nothing. I assure you 
we treat him well. Now, there are the 
rooms, for instance, he occupies; wo want 
them badly for ourselves, for we have no 
space to turn in. Then, we try to pro- 
vide him occupation. Last St. Peter's day 
I bought him some fish-hooks — excellent 
English hooks, very dear. The pond is 
full of tench, and he has only to sit at the 
edge and fish nil d.iy — what better occu- 
pation for an old man? Martin Petro- 
vitch himself approves. You know what 
a hot, violent man ho was; now he has 
become quite quiet. Your mother is 
an^ry with me. She is a great lady, and 
holds to power a3 much as did formerly 
Martin Petrovircli. Come and judge for 
yourself, and, if an opportunity offjrs, Bay 
a word in our favour. I have the honour 
to sa lute you. Kill as many woodcocks 
as you like. They are birds of passage, 
and belong to nobody; but if a hare 
crosses your path, spare it — it i3 our 

44 When left to myself, I exclaimed, 
4 How is it that Kharlof has not before this 
exterminated Slotkine ? He must be sub- 
dued indeed.' 

44 At the end of the garden was the pond. 

44 ' Has Kharlof indeed turned fisher- 
man ? ' I asked If. I looked round, 
and at the bottom of a forest of rushes I 
saw a greyish ma*s. It was indeed Khar- 
lof, without cap, his hair dishevelled, a 
kind of linen overcoat rent at every scam, 
his legs doubled under him : he was seated, 
motionless, on the bare mud.' His whole 
appearance was so strange that my dog 
stopped short, and begin to growl. Khar- 
lof raised his head, and looked at me like 
a wild man. My heart beat violently as I 
approached and saluted him. 4 You are 



there, catching fish, Martin Petroviteh/ I 

" * Yea, fishing/ he answered, in a hoarse 
Toice, and gave a jerk with his rod, at the 
tad of which was a piece of string, and no 
hook ; and I perceived he had no worms 
for bait. 

u * But your hook is broken.' 
: " ' Broken/ he repeated, passing his hand 
across his eyes. ( Is it the son of Natalia 
Nicolavna?' said he, after some minutes' 
pause. He still appeared to me a giant, 
but so thin, such rags, such a wreck. 

"'Yes/ I answered, 4 I am the son of 
Natalia Nicolavna ; she is much concerned 
at your refusing to go to see her/ 

" * Have you been there ? ' said Kharlof, 
pointing to the house. ' Go now. What 
have you to do here? Useless to talk 
with me. Go to the house ; all goes on 
wonderfully. My daughters are such ex- 
cellent housewives. As for me, I am 
frown old. Quiet, quiet, you know, is the 
est for me.' 

"'Fine quiet, indeed 1' I exclaimed. 
* Martin Petrovitcb, you must come to 


" Kharlof gave me a sad glance. ' Go, 
pay friend, go.' 

" * Do not refuse my mother ; she will 
send her carriage for you.' 

" * Go.' 

u l Come, let yourself be persuaded. Why 
remain here to torment yourself? ' 

'*' How torment myself? ' 

" ' I mean you are wrong to be as you 
are.' Kharlof seemed to reflect, and. 
emboldened by his silence, ,1 determined 
to press him still further. Recollect I was 
only fifteen. * Martin Petrovitcb/ I cried, 
while I placed myself by his side, * I know 
the shameful way in which you are treated : 
what a situation it is for you. But why 
lose courage? You have certainly com- 
mitted an imprudence in giv ng up all to 
your daughters — it was great, it was gen- 
erous. But if they show ingratitude it is 
your part to return it with scorn, aud no.t 
give yourself up to melancholy/ 

" ' Leave me/ murmured Kharlof, grind- 
ing his teeth, and hi* eyes which he kept 
fixed upon the pond, becoming inflamed 
with rage. * Begone.' 

" 4 But Martin Petrovitch ' 

" * Begone, I say, or I will kill you. I 
will throw you into the water, to teach 
you to dare to come and disturb an old 
man with your imbecile advice — brat that 
you are.' 

u 4 He is gone mad/ I thought. Looking 
lit him, I saw Kharlof was crying. Small 
tears silently trickled down his cheeks, and 

yet his face had a most ferocious expres- 
sion. 'Begone/ he again shouted, "or I 
will kill you, to serve as an example to 
others. * I picked up my gun, and took to 
my heels. 

" About three weeks after I was stand- 
ing at my bed-room window, looking 
gloomily over the yard; the weather for 
many days had been too bad for shooting 
the rain falling in torrents, the roads im- 
passable from mud, the trees bending un- 
der a hurricane of wind ; the cold so in- 
tense, it penetrated to the very marrow of 
one's bones. It appeared as if the sua 
would never show itself again; it was 
quite dark though it was midday. I then, 
discerned, crossing the yard and making 
towards the door, what appeared to me a 
bear, not on four legs but erect, like one 
taught to dance. I could scarcely believe 
my eyes, aud was trying to account for 
this extraordinary apparition, when a 
frightful noise came from below. I ran 
down stairs. At the door stood my moth- 
er, petrified with horror, and behind her a 
cluster of scared female attendants. The 
steward, footman, and the little Cossack, 
all open-mouthed, pressing towards the 
dining-room, in the midst of which, cov- 
ered with mud, the rain streaming in tor- 
rents from his tattered garments, on his 
knees, panting, gasping, suffocating, was 
the monstrous black, heavy being I had 
seen cross the court. It was Kharlof. He 
breathed heavily, convulsively — it wa3 as 
if a cauldron was boiling in his breast. 
All I could distinguish in this filthy mass 
was his small eyes, which rolled wildly 

'* At last, my mother exclaimed, ' Is this 
you, Martin Petrovitch?' 

" ' It is indeed me ; yes, me/ he replied, 
in a broken voice. 

" ' Good heavens ! what has happened ? ' 

44 ' Nata — lia — Nicaiav — na, I have run 
here on foot/' 

44 * And in such weather ; but you do not 
resemble a human being. Get up and 
take a seat. And you/ said she, turning to 
the servants, * bring towels at once, and 
see if you can find some dry garments for 
him to put on/ 

u The steward raised his hands. * Where 
find a garment for such a giant? We will 
fetch a horse-cloth or a sheet/ 

44 * They have turned me out, madam/ 
said Kharlof, after a deep groan ; 4 they 
have turned me out, Natalia Nicolavua, 
my own daughters — from my own uest.' 

44 My mother crossed herself, 4 Huw hor- 
rible: but get up, Martin Petrovitch; do 
me this favour. 1 



* The servants arrived with towels and 
a large blanket. 

u * Come, stand up,' said my mother in a 
roiee of command, * and tell me all that 
has happened/ He raised himself slowly, 
staggering like a drunken man, drew a 
chair near, and sank into it. The servants 
advanced with the towels and blanket, but 
he motioned them away with his hand, and 
my mother did not insist. 

tfc Madam Natalia Nieolavna, 9 at last 
he begin, with effort, * I am going to tell 
you the whole truth. Pride has been my 
fall, as much as it was that of Nebuchad- 
nezzar. I said to myself, Heaven has 
gifted me with intellect, and then, with 
the fear of approaching death on my mind, 
my head was turned, and I said, I will 
show the world, before departing this life, 
my generosity and my power. I will con- 
fer benefits on them all, and all shall 
be grateful to me to the tomb.' Kharlof 
started from his chair. * Kicked out 
like a mangy dog — such is their gratitude. 
Hiey took away from me Maximka, they 
took my carriage, my horse, they reduced 
my food, they did not pay my allowance, 
all has been miserably curtailed around 
me. And I said nothing, on account of 
my pride, that my enemies should not have 
it in their power to say, ' Look at that old 
fool, see how he now repents; and you, 
madam, you also had warned me. That is 
why I would never breathe a word of 
complaint To-day, I went into my poor 
chamber, it was occupied, my bed thrown 
into a garret, and I was told, 'You can 
sleep as well there, we keep you by favour, 
and we want your room.' And who said 
this to me ? Volodka Slotkine, a vile up- 
start, a mis " Here his voice broke 


u *But, your daughters, what did they 
say ? ' asked my mother. 

" My daughters 1 they have no will of 
their own; they are both the slaves of 
Volodka. Madam, I cannot support the 
ingratitude of my children. When Volo- 
dka, with his insolent tongue, told me I 
should no longer occupy my own room, 
every timber of which I built with my own 
hands, heaven knows what darkness over- 
shadowed me, what a knife pierced my 
heart. I then ran, in this horrible state, 
to you, my benefactress.' 

* ** Come, repose yourself,' said my 
mother, 'they shall take you to a warm 
room ; lie down and sleep, and take some 
tea, and we will talk. Do not lose courage, 
my old friend; if they have driven you 
from your house, you will always find a 
home in mine. I have not forgotten you 

saved my life. Take him to bed, and when 
he awake3, send for the tailor to measure 
him for new clothes." The steward led 
him to his room, and hastened to procure 
some linen. Souvenir, who had been watch- 
ing his opportunity, now came 9 forward, 
and began dancing and annoying Kharlof. 
' Good morning, your excellence, let me 
kiss your hand ; but why have you put on 
your black gloves ? You treated me at a 

Sarasite, and now you are one yourself. 
ow you have not a roof that belongs to 
you. You will eat the bread of charity 
like me.' 

" ( Souvenir,' I cried, ' be silent,* bat in 

" * Oh, you quite frighten me, my little 
brother. You might at least have combed 
your beautiful ,locks, now they must be cut 
with a scythe. And you still attempt to 
bluster, you a beggar, a naked worm. 
Where now is the hereditary roof of which 
you were so prou J V ' 

" * Mr. Bitschkof,' I cried, ' what are you 
about, in the name of heaven ? ' I was 
alarmed. Kharlof, who had been gradu- 
ally calmed down by his interview with my 
mother, was now becoming again excited. 
He breathed quickly. The veins of his 
neck dilated, and his eyes flashed through 
his bespattered face. I threatened Souve- 
nir to inform my mother, but a very demon 
Beemed to possess htm. 

" ' Yes,' cried he, ' most respectable gen- 
tleman. This is what you are come to. 
Your daughter and your son-in-law jeer at 
you under your hereditary roof. You said 
you would club thetn, but you are afraid. 
You thought you could wrestle with Mr. 
Slotkine, but he is too strong for you.' 

" A fearful yell interrupted Souvenir'e 
harangue. Kharlof a face turned blue, he 
foamed at the mouth, and his whole frame 
quivered with fury. * A roof, did yoa 
say ? ' cried he, in his iron voice. ' No, I 
will not curse them, that would be indif- 
ferent to them ; but a roof I I will destroy 
it from top to bottom. They shall not 
have one any more than I. They shall 
know what it is to turn me in derision. 
My strength has not yet forsaken me : they 
shall not have a roof — No, no I ' and up- 
setting the attendants who had just en- 
tered, he rushed out of the house. 

" My mother was greatly disturbed when 
she heard of Kharlof s departure, and de- 
spatched Lizinski to bring him back at all 
costs. In an hour he returned alone. 
' What has happened, that he does not 
come ? ' 

" * Nothing has happened to him, bat he 



is palling down hia home. He is standing 
on the roof, and has already thrown down 
thirty planks and a dozen rafters." 

"My mother exclaimed, 'Alone upon 
the roof, and pulling dowu the house ! ' 

"'As I have the honour of informing 
you, madam. lie is breaking everything, 
right and left: his strength is. aa you know, 
supernatural. And the roof is not very 
solid ; it is made of batten and laths. I pro- 
pose returning again with some of our peo- 
ple, and seeing what can be done. The 
peasants have » all hid themselves from 

" I ran to the stables and galloped off to 
Jeskova. AVlivn I reached the carriage- 
gate, I was dumb with stupor. Of a third 
of the roof of the uew house, the skele- 
ton only remained. Piles of plauks were 
heaped on each side of the walls and on 
the top floor rolled a blackened mass, now 
shaking the shaft of a chimney, now tear- 
ing a rafter from the roof and throwing it 
on the ground. It was Kharlof, his rug) 
and his hair fluttering in the wind. It was 
horrible to see, it was more horrible to 
hear him. A crowd of peasants, servant*, 
and children filled the court. On the 
doorsteps of the other house stood the 
aged priest, raising from time to time an 
old copper crucifix, which he held towards 
Kharlof in silence and despair. Near him 
stood Evlampia, looking at her father with 
gloomy earnestness. Anna remained with- 
in, but would now rush into the court, 
now return intcV the house. Slotkine, 
armed with a gun, paced up and down, 
pantiug, shivering, threatening, levelling 
his piece at Khariof, and then throwing it 
back on his shoulder. As soon as he saw 
us, he ran no. 

'*' See what has happened,' he said, in a 
doleful tone ; 4 ho has gone quite mad. Sje 
what he is doing. I have sent for the po- 
lice; if I lire upon him, I shall not be an- 
swerable iu the eyes of the law, for every 
one has a rig'.it to defend his own property. 
I am now going to fire. Martin Petrovitch, 
come down, or I fire/ 

" ' Fire 1 ' an ?wered from the roof a terri- 
ble voice. ' In the meantime, I send you 
a present.' A long plank whistled through 
the air, and full at the feet of Slotkine. 

"'Fetch a ladder," said Slotkine to a 
group of peasants. ' Climb all, and save 
my property/ 

"'Where to find it?' answered the 
group. ' And if there were one, who would 
mount it? Not such fool). He would 
▼ring every one of our necks like so many 
chickens.' It was evident that, even if the 
danger had been less, the peasants wouid 

not have obeyed the'r new ma?te~. They 

almost approved of Kharlof, and certainly 
admired him. 

444 Thieves! rascals! ' vociferated Slot- 
kine. At thn moment, the last c'linaney 
fed in with a tremendous cra*h, and as tho 
cloud of yellow dust cleared away, Kharlof 
was to be seen shouting in triumph, and 
holding up hi) begrimed and blood-stained 
hands. Sbtkine again levelled his gun, 
but Evlampia pushed back his elbow. 
4 Do not prevent me,' he cried, with fury. 

44 'You dare not,' she siid, her blue eyea 
lighting up under her clo^e-set eyebrows. 
4 Tho father,' she says, 4 destroys his own 
hou?e — it is his own.' 

44 ' False, it is ours.' 

44 'You. say so, and I, his daughter, tell 
you it is his.' Slotkiue was bursting with 


Ah, good day, good day, my beloved 
daughter,' cried Kharlof from above. 

44 Finish, father, and come down, come 
to me; we are all guilty, but we will re- 
store all; believe your daughter, and come 

" By what right do you take this decision 
upon yourself,' interrupted Slotkine. Ev- 
lampia did not condescend a reply. ' I will 
restore you my share,' continued she, 'I 
will render you all, father ; forgive us, for- 
give me.' 

" Kharlof smiled. ' l\>o late, my dove ; 
your stony heart is moved too late. Do 
not look upon me, I am a lent mm. Look 
rather at Volodka, at your viper sister. 
Njw, my little gentleman, yoa wished to 
deprive me of my roof, well, I will not 
leave one rafter upon another. I have 
fashioned and laid them all with my own 
hands and with my own hand* alone will 
I destroy them. You see, I have not taken 
an axe/ 

44 4 Finish, father,' resumed Evlampia, in 
a caressing voice, 'do believe me, you al- 
ways have believed ine ; come down into 
my little room, come up on my bed; I will 
dry yoar clothes — I will warm you — I 
will dress your wounds. See how your 
poor hands are torn. Yes, wo have been 
very guilty, but you will forgive.' 

u Kharlof tossed bis head. * Idle talkl 
I, believe you I you hive killed all belief 
in me. You have killed everything. I 
was an eagle, and I made myself a worm 
for you, and you have put yoar heel upon 
the worm. 1 loved you — yoa know how 
much. Now you are iu longer my daugh- 
ter, I am no more yoar father. I am a 
lost man. And you, fire, you coward,' he 
cried, suddenly turuin ' round to Slotkine. 
* Why do you only point yoar gan at me? 



Bat, perhaps you remember the law : 'If 
the receiver attempt ihe lifo of the donor, 
the last has 'a right to take back his gift.' 
Don't be afraid, great lawyer, I ask for 
nothing — I will sec after myself. Fire ! ' 
"At this moment Lizinski appeared 
with his party. * What an army against 
me/ cried Kharlof ; * but I give notice that 
whoever pays me a visit up here, will re- 
turn down head foremost/ His aspect was 
so terrible, that the men who had reached 
the top quickly descended by the gutter, 
to the derision and didight of the people 
assembled below. Kharlof returned to the 
front, and seizing with his two hands the 
pair of rafters which formed the point of 
the roof, began rocking them backwards 
. tad forwards to the measure of a tune he 
was tinging, like the bpatmen on a river. 
** ' Lizitiski,' said Slotkinc, Met me fire 
one shot, if only to frighten him.' Liziu- 
ski had no time to reply, for the rafter3, 
furiously rocked by the iron hands of Khar- 
lof, at last gave way. They fell with a 
crash, and carried him down along with 
them. He struck the ground with his 
whole might, and the long beam which 
forms the top of the roof followed the 
rafters in their descent, and feJl upon the 
shoulders of the unfortunate Kharlof. ' It 
is finished,' murmured the peasants. Pale 
as death, Evlampia placed herself by her 
father, and fixed upon him her motionless 
eye. Neither Anna nor Slotkine dared 
approach him. All was silent in mourn- 
ful expectation. At last, a convulsive 
gurgle was heard, he opened one eye, 
looked listlessly round and stammered, 
* Bro-ken.' Then, after a pause — * the 
black colt.' A stream of blood gushed 
from his mouth — 1 thought it was the 
end, but Kharlof again opened his eye. 
and looking at Evlampia, said, with a 
sinking voice, * It is you my daughter, 
J——' and expired. The heavy beam 
Had broken his Bpine. Evlampia fell, a 
senseless mass at the feet of the body of 
her inanimate fnher. 

*• * What were his last words? ' I said to 
myself. ' Did he wish to pardon or to 
curse her?* In my own heart I felt he 
had forgiven her. 

"Some diiy3 ufter the funeral, it was 
rumoured that Evlampia had left the pa- 
ternal hou«e for ever, resigning all her 
share of the inheritance to her sister." 

From Macmlllan'a Migasine. 

BY A. 0. BAHSAT, F.R.S., F.O.S., ETC., XTC., 

The year now rapidly drawing to a 
close has been one of the most rainy on 
record, and men count by tens of years 
the times since the flooded rivers deluged 
the meadows in the manner they have 
done in the year 1372. In places the rain- 
gauges have overflowed, and the actual 
amount of rainfall for a time has been un- 
known. All the rivers of Scotland, of 
the north and middle of England, and of 
Ireland, have risen high above their nor- 
mal autumnal level*, and are out and 
abroad across the meadow.-*, forming good- 
sized lakes where cattle used to browse; 
while hedges and tree*, and in Irelaud 
numerous Uayoocks, stand drearily in the 
unassuaged waters. All the lakes in Ire- 
land are brimful, and rivers usually tran- 
quil pour along in turbid flood?. As yet, 
however, in our islands, excepting the 
damaged harvest, no special cn'amities on 
a large 6cale are on record; it is chiefly 
from Italy that we hear of tho devastating 
effects of rivers that have escaped beyond 
their banks, and especially of the Po. 

The Po iu its behaviour may be looked 
upon as a typical river, the sources of 
wnich are fed by the "aged snows" of 
the Alp?, and by the heavy raius of the 
Apennines. Every river has a definite 
geographical and geological history, often 
possible to be more or less unravelled, by 
qualified iuquirers who may t:ike the 
pains; and of all the rivers of Europe, 
perhaps few have a more interesting his- 
tory than the Po. 

Above Ferrara, where the Po receives 
the last of its affluent?, it drains an area 
of 23,783 miles, of which 15,832 miles 
consist of mountain land?, and 10,037 of 
laud comparatively flat. As everyone 
knows, it runs from west to etist, through 
many a city famous in story, across the 
great plains of 

"... fruitful Lombardy, 

The pleasant garden of great Italy." 

till at last, charged thick with sediment, it 
passes onward throng!) the mouths that 
intersect its muddy delta into the Adriatic. 
In this great valley, now so fertile, it has 
run for far more thousands of years than 
man can yet venture to attempt to number, 
though perhaps the time may come when 
even that feat may be attempted. 

Long before the historic period, tens of 
thousands of years ago, but which geolo- 



gists call recent, the great valley was an 
ar:n of the sea; for beneath the gravels 
and alluvia that form the soils of Piedmont 
and Lombardy, sea-shells of living species 
are found in well-known unconsolidated 
strata at no great depth. At this period 
the lake3 of Como, Maggiore, and La 
Garda, may have been fiords, though much 
le*3 deep than now. Later still, the Alpine 
vallevs through which the affluents of the 
Porun were full to the brim with the huge 
old glaciers of the Glacial Period, which, 
debouching on the plain*, piled up the 
enormous moraine of the - Dora Baltea, 
sixty miles in circumference, in places 
seven miles in width, and over 1,600 feet 
in height. Others of almost equal impor- 
tance lie lower down the valley, as at La 
Garda ; and the famous battle of Novara 
was fought on hills which, though now 
fertile, were once mere heaps of barren 

In those early times the Po flowed from 
the ice-caverns of the giant glaciers — 
just as at the present day it does from 
their diminutive descendants, high up 
among the inner Alp 3 ; and the great lakes 
of Northern Italy had no visible existence, 
for the valleys were choked to their water- 
sheds on either hand by the ice of glaciers 
that, now shrunken and small, have receded 
far up among the further recesses of the 
mountains. No forests miscalled primeval 
then clothed the rocky heights, for all was 
white and barren, a waste of snow, unprof- 
itable to the eye, had eyes been there to 
see it, but not unprofitable in reality, for 
the thick and ponderous glaciers were 
busy scooping out lake-basins, great and 
small, and griuding to powder the rocks in 
their path, which, transferred to the great 
river, were spread abroad in the valley to 
form the soil now worked by man on so 
many fertile breadths of tillage. 

It is almost impossible to over-estimate 
the importance of glaciers in the produc- 
tion of sediment. Every river that flows 
from a modern Alpine glacier is white with 
the *• flour of rocks," and how much greater 
must this power have been when the 
glaciers were more than a hundred times 
their present size I As they grew their 
chief work was first to grind off all the 
angularities previously produced on the 
rocks by ordinary atmospheric weathering. 
When that was done they still continued to 
push across the smoothed mam mi Hated sur- 
faces (roches moutonn&s), constantly deep- 
ening the valleys and lowering the moun- 
tains ; and all the while their sediment, 
won from the rocks, was travelling seaward, 
under the glaciers and into the riven, by 

them to be spread abroad, partly as alln- 
vium over the land, partly po be carried 
by the Po to the sea, and by ever-increas- 
ing encroachment to add to its delta and 
lessen the area of the Adriatic. All this 
while, too, in the opinion of the author (an 
opinion now largely adopted both by Euro- 
pean and American geologists), the 
glaciers were busy deepening certain por- 
tions of their valleys so as to form true 
rock-bound lake-basins; for glacier ice 
easily moulds itself to the inequalities of 
the surface across which it is forced by 
pressure from behind ; and in favourable 
places, if the rooks be of unequal hardness, 
or if the quiet turmoil of the ice (if I may 
so speak) be greater in one place than 
another from the influx of tributary 
glaciers, there the grinding power is great- 
est and a rock -basin is sometimes the 
result. While producing this effect, all 
observation shows that glaciers had the 
power of shoving the ice in front up long 
inclined planes, and even over minor hill* 
that opposed their onward courses. I in- 
sist upon this point because since the 
decline of the glaciers the great lake-basins 
on the Italian side of the Alps have exer- 
cised a powerful influence in the intercep- 
tion of sediment that is now, by the pro- 
gressive encroachment of deltas, gradually 
tending to fill up the lakes of Como, Mag- 
giore, and La Garda, and which, but for 
the glacier erosion of these rock-basins, 
would in great part find its way to swell 
the delta of the Po. 

It is perhaps impossible to determine 
whether the floods to which the river was 
subject in these early times were greater 
or less in amount than at present. It is 
certain that there were then no forests in 
the great Alpine valleys, and it is well 
known that forests exercise a most impor- 
tant influence, both in the amount of rain- 
fall and in the running of the water off 
the ground. If there were forests at that 
time in the North of Italy, they must have 
occupied the broad plains of the valley of 
the ro outside the great moraines of the 
period, and probably consisted chiefly of 
pines, like the forests of North America. 
But the woods of the plains must them- 
selves have very much affected the flood- 
ing of the rivers great and small, for not 
only do wide-spreading forests 'tend to 
produce a moist atmosphere, but their 
shade prevents rapid evaporation, and the 
roots of the trees hinder the quick flow of. 
the surface water in the streams of the 
wood-covered area. It is a well-known 
fact that in North America many fair-sized 
rivers, that once ran with water all the 



year, now show nothing bat dry and stony 
channels, excepting when refilled for a 
time by occasional floods of rain. 

The woods of the lowlands would there- 
fore only tend to keep the Po unaffected 
by droughts, and always comparatively 
tall; but what connection may the vast 
glaciers of the period hare had on the 
average size and intermittent flooding of 
the river? It is difficult to answer this 
question with precision, but it seems cer- 
tain that the outflow from the ends of the 
glaciers must have been smallest in winter 
and largest in summer. Such rains as 
there were in summer-time would chiefly 
fall on the plains and help to keep the 
river full as it slowly drained off the low- 
lying lands, and in the same season the 
summer heats, though far less intense than 
bow, would at intervals tend to melt the 
surface of the glaciers beyond the usual 
average and swell the Po considerably 
above its ordinary size, just as the glaciers 
of Spitzbergen and the southern half of 
Greenland of the present day, in the sum- 
mer, deliver an extra amount of water. 
Everyone familiar with Alpine glaciers 
has seen in hot weather the wonderful 
daily rise and fall of the rivers that flow 
from their ends, dependent on the direct 
heat of the sun, and its withdrawal when 
sunset comes on ; and the same effect on 
a larger scale accompanies the summer 
heat and the winter cold. Such must have 
been the case during the alternation of the 
seasons when the great old glaciers of the 
Alps filled to the brim the valleys of the 
Rhone and the Rhine ; and the Baine was 
the case in the valley of Aosta and many 
another valley both deep and long, whose 
tributary streams, some of them passing 
through lakes, still help to swell the Po. 
Bat even in winter, with the climate of the 
period, there could have been no great 
diminution of the average volume of water, 
for in thick glacier ice, a few feet beneath 
the surface, even with the temperature of 
the air far below zero (Fahr.), the whole 
of the under-ice is just about the melting- 
point; and in the very north of Green- 
land the sub- glacier rivers still never cease 
to pour forth perennial streams, often deep 
below the level of the sea, where glaciers 
sometimes protrude for miles beyond the 

When we consider the vast size of the 
moraines shed from the ancient glaciers 
that fed the Po, it is evident that at all 
times, but especially during floods, vast 
havoc must often have occurred among the 
masses of loose debris.' Stones, sand, and 
mud, rolled along the bottom and borne on 

in suspension, must have been scattered 
across the plains by the swollen waters ; 
for it is the habit with large glacier rivers 
to be constantly changing their courses, and 
often disastrously to ravage the plains 
through which they flow. This is the reason 
why so much of the plains of Piedmont is 
oovered by rounded stony debris, which to a 
great extent represents the water- worn 
debris of ancient moraines, the very relics 
of which still form important ranges of 
hills (comparable in the flatness of their 
tops to the Cotswolds seen from the valley 
of the Severn), rising above the plain of 
Piedmont to nearly half the height of 
Snowdon. The gravels of the great plain 
of the Rhine below Basle were probably 
formed in the same manner. 

It will now be easily understood how 
the vast plains that bound the Po and its 
tributaries were gradually formed by the 
constant annual increase of river gravels 
and finer alluvia, and how these sediments 
rose in height by the overflow of the 
waters, and steadily encroached upon the 
sea by the growth of the delta ; a process 
which, began thousands of years before 
history began, has largely altered the face 
of the country within historic times, and is 
powerfully in action at the present day. 

To persons accustomed to think of the 
world as having always been what we now 
see it, it is hard to realize such facts as 
these — facts, too, that only relate to a 
very small portion of a late minor epoch 
in the geological history of the earth. 
And yet how greatly suggestive they are 1 % 
Through all this time (and long before) 
the mountains have constantly been wast- 
ing away, and their crests getting lowered ; 
the valleys, so many of which send trib- 
utary streams to the Po, have been widen- 
ing on the upper slopes and deepening be- 
low, at one time by the power of ice, and 
now by the action of the petty glaciers 
which we are accustomed to esteem so 
large, combined with winds, frost, rain, 
and the torrents that tear along their bot- 
toms. It has been estimated by Pro- 
fessor Geikie that the area drained by the 
Po is on an average being lowered one 
foot in 729 years, and a corresponding 
amount of sediment carried away by the 

To take an example — let us try rudely 
to estimate the quantity of matter still 
remaining in the moraine of the Dora Bal- 
tea, of which so much has already been 
carried away to form the alluvial plains 
of the Po and to help to enlarge its pres- 
ent delta. The circuit of the moraine is 
about sixty miles, its breadth in places 



about seven, and its height above 1,000 
fetet. Let us attempt an average, and call 
its height only 603 feet, and its breadth 
three miles; then the total amount of 
debris in the moraine is 225,781,030,000 
cubic yard3 of material, or, in printed 
words, two hundred and twenty-five thou- 
sand, seven hundred and eighty-four mil- 
lion? of cubic vards of debris. And this is 
only a r^lic of what wa3 originally worn 
away from the old Alps; for when the 
rubbish was being deposited, the chief 
business of the strjams that flowed from 
the end of the glacier was constantly to 
dispose of the moraine material and to 
bear away it to lower levels. What may 
be said of the Dora Baltea may be said of 
many another Alpine river and moraine, 
on scales almost or perhaps equally great. 

Furthermore, as already said, one chief 
occupation of the great old glaciers in the 
larger valleys was to scoop out the rock- 
basins, Urge and small, in which almost 
all the hiked on both Hides of the Alp3 now 
lie, and many another lake besides, now 
filled with alluvium and forming broad 
meadows. In the Val d'Aosta the flit on 
which the town of Aosta stands is a case 
in point; and in many another valley in 
the Alps, and in Cumberland and the 
Yorkshire dales, on a smaller scale, the 
same is apparent. The time indeed must 
come when the lakes of Maggiore, Como, 
and Lugano, and many another Alpine 
lake besides, shall be filled with alluvium, 
and become green meadows, unless re- 
newed upheavals of the Alps should take 
place, of a kind slow to the eye yet com- 
paratively quick, though by no means sud- 
den, in the sense in which man under- 
stands the word. 

When the day arrives in which the great 
Italian lakes shall be filled with alluviu n, 
a new modification of the history of the 
Po may commence, and its d?lta and the 
filling up of the Adiiatic will advance 
more rapidly than before. 

All these considerations help to show, 
though only in part, how complicated is 
the history of any great river; but before 
closing this sketch something may be said 
about the later history of the Po. 

It is hard to get at the historical records 
of the river more than two thousand years 
ago, though we may form a good guess as 
to it? earlier geological history. Within 
the historical period extensive lakes and 
marshes (some of them probably old sea 
lagoon ;) lay within its plains, since grad- 
ually filled with sediment by periodical 
floods. Great lines of dikes, partly of un- 
known antiquity, border the winding river 

for a length of about 200 miles from 
Piocenza to its mouth, and throughout 
this course it? breadth varies, from 400 to 
GOO yards. Through all its many wind- 
ings from Chivasso downward, alluvial 
island* diversify it3 course, and deserted 
channels here and there mark the ancient 
aberrations of the river. To guard against 
the devastating effects of floods and to 
check such aberrations, the dikes were 
raised; and in this contest of man with 
Nature, the result has been that the allu- 
vial flats on either side of the river out- 
side the dikes have for long received but 
little addition of surface sediment, and 
their level is nearly stationary. It thus 
happens that most of the sediment that in 
old times must have been spread by over- 
flows across the laud, is now hurried along 
towards the Adriatic, there, with the help 
of the Adige, steadily to advance the far 
spreading alluvial flats that form the d^lta 
of the two rivers. As the embanking of 
the river went on from age to age, so just 
in proportion has the annual amount of 
the formation of the delf a been accelerated. 
The town of Adria, a sea-port of the Adri- 
atic in the reign of Augustus, is now four- 
teen miles from the shore, and the ancient 
lagoon of Ravenna has long since been 
filled up, chiefly by the mud brought down 
by an ancient arm of the Po. Bat the 
confined river, unable by annual floods to 
dispose of part of its sediment, jast as tho 
dikes were increased in height, gradually- 
raised its bottom by the deposition there 
of a portion of the transported material, 
so that to prevent its overflow it is said 
that the embankments have been raised 
so high that at Ravenna the full-flooded 
river often runs higher than the tops of 
the houses, and the safety of the neighbour- 
ing country is a constant source of anxiety 
to the inhabitants. All the*e dangers have 
been much increased by the wanton da- 
struction of the forest of the Alps and Ap- 
ennines, for when the shelter of the wood is 
gone, the heavy rain3 of summer easily 
wash the soil from the slopes down into 
the river3, and many an upland pan tiro 
ha3 by this process been turned into bare 
rock. Iu this way it happen* that during 
the historical psriod the quantity of detri- 
tus borne onward by the Po has much in- 
creased, the level of its bottom is there- 
fore more rapidly raised, and whereas be* 
tweeu the years 1200 and 1000 tho delta 
advanced on an average only aoout twenty- 
five yards a year, from 1000 to the year 
1£J0 the increase has been more than 
seventy yard*. 
At last a season comes like the present, 



when long-continued rain falls alike on 
mountains and plains, and tho floods, 
swelled by the rapidly thawing glacier?, 
steadily increase tho volume of the rivers, 
till at length they rise to the very brims 
of their embankments ; and in spits of the 
loug-cou tinned precautions of man, the 
rirers, and most of all the Po, have broken 
across their prescribed bounds and 
whelmed in sheets of water hundreds of 
square miles of the fertile plains of Lom- 
bardy. When these vast lakes subside, or 
are absorbed by the air and the soil, who 
can estimate the havoc and destruction 
produced by the whelming waters out of 
which the tree-tops and roofs of building3 
are now standing? IIou*C3 and even 
churches have been swept away, sand and 
gravel bury tho meadows, and many a 
rear must pass before the 20,000 families 
now houseless shall, by unremittent la- 
boar, restore the ravaged fields to their 
old fertility. 

It 13 a hard thin? to say, but such 13 one 
of the almost inevitable results of man's 
struggle wich great rivers, when for age3 
he has striven to confine thein. But by 
foresight and skill much may bo done; 
and if the great old forests of the moun- 
tains were allowed to reassert th«m*elvc.«, 
the recurring danger would in time* be- 
come lass than now. But to bo even near- 
ly safe, dredging must, if possible, be add- 
ed to embanking, so as to keep the l6ng 
incline of the river bottom at an average 
level, otherwise the time in thp far future 
must come when Nature will of necessity 
overcome even the best directed efforts of 


From Nature. 

MartSomeuville (born Fairfax), long 
ago known for her scientific researches 
and long well known for her popular and 
educational scientific works, died in the 
neighbourhood of Naples, where she has 
lived for some ycar3, on Friday, Novem- 
ber 2D, aged nearly 92 years, having been 
born on December 23, 1780. She be- 
longed to a good Scotch family, her father 
having been the late Vice- Admiral Sir 
William George Fairfax, was a great 
reader, learned Euclid surreptitiously 
while quite a girl, and at the same period 
cot up a knowledge of Latin in order to 
be able to read Newton's Principia, and 
was educated at a school in Musselburgh, 
near Edinburgh. 

• Her first important contribution to 
science was made in 1820, when she pre- 
sented to the Royal Society a paper on 
tho magnetizing powers of tho mora re- 
frangible solar rays, the object of which 
was to prove that these rays of the solar 
spectrum have a strong inagnejtic influence. 
This paper led to much discussion, which 
was not set at rest till the researches of 
Rtess and Moser showed that tho action 
upon the magnetic needle was not caused 
by the violet rays. 

Mrs. Somerville's first work of any ex- 
tent was her " Mechanism of the Heavens " 
(1831), written at first at the request of 
Lord Brougham, as one of tho reries of 
publications by the Socicly for the Diffu- 
sion of Useful Knowledge. A', however, 
the work was on too hirgo a scale, and, 
according to Sir John Htr*chel, to whom 
the MS. was submitted, as it was written 
for posterity, and not for the class whom 
society designed to instruct, it was pub- 
lished as an independent work, ' eliciting 
from all quarters the highest encomiums, 
especially a3 being the work of a woxan. 
It was founded to some extent on La 
Place's treatise, though tho authoress ex- 
ercised her own judgment in the accept- 
ance or rejection of his theories. 

Her next work "On the Connection of 
the Physical Sciences," was published in 
18*31, and was referred to by Humboldt as 
" the generally so exact and admirable 

In 1818 appeared tho work by which, 
perhaps, she is most generally known, her 
•• Physical Geography," which, along with 
some of her other works, ha3 passed 
through many editions, b^en reprinted 
frequently in America, and translated into 
several foreign languages. Notwithstand- 
ing the numerous works on the same sub- 
ject that have since appeared, Mrs. Som- 
erville's book still holds place as a first 
authority, even with the initiated. 

In 1800 appeared her last work, " On« 
Molecular and Microscopic Sjience," which, 
to quote a writer in tho Edinburgh Review, 
• 4 contains a complete conspectus of some 
of the mo3t recent and most abstruse re- 
searches of modern science, and describes 
admirably not only the discoveries of our 
day in the field of physics and chemistry, 
but more especially the revelations of the 
microscope in the .vegetable and animal 
worlds." Tho fact that Mr3. Sjrncrville 
was close on her 00th year when she pub- 
lished this work, in which h contained a 
resume of the most interesting results of 
recent scientific investigations, may give 
one some idea of the undying vigour and 



clearness of her mind, as well as of her 
intense love of science. 

So long ago as 1835 Government recog- 
nised Mrs. Somerville's great merits, by 
bestowing upon her a literary pension of 
300/ ; and in the same year she was made 
an honorary member of the Royal Astro- 
nomical Society, the only other lady on 
whom this honour was conferred having 
been Miss Caroline Herschel. The Geo- 
graphical Society awarded Mrs. Somer- 
ville the Patron or Victoria Medal in 
1869, and about thirty years earlier the 
Fellows of the Royal Society subscribed 
for her bust, which was executed by Chan- 
trey, and now arlorns the Society's library. 
She certainly deserved all the honours she 
obtained, for during her long life she has 
done very much to the standard of 
scientific text-books, and to spread among 
general readers the accurate results of 
scientific research. 

Dr. William Somen i lie was his wife's 
second husband, her first husband having 
been Captain Gre'g, a naval officer, fond 
of mathematics, and who took pleasure in 
giving his wife instruction in his favourite 
subject, thus probably giving her mind a 
bent towards science which has led to im- 
portant results. 

From The Saturday Review. 

" We must read," said Dr. Johnson, in 
one of his contentious conversations with 
Sir Joshua and others, " what the world 
reads at the moment." . And he added, 
after some other remarks, " It must be con- 
sidered that we have now more knowledge 
generally diffused. All our ladies read 
now, which is a great extension." He did 
not stop to criticize the wortli of what all 
the ladies were reading. He took for 
granted that the step from reading noth- 
ing to reading something was a great in- 
tellectual advance. And he was quite 
right. We, however, live under somewhat 
different literary conditions from those 
which prevailed in Dr. Johnson's day. 
There is a much greater amount of trash 
written now than was written then, and 
consequently there is a much greater num- 
ber of readers of trash, not only among 
women, but among men also, than there 
was then. The ladies have made a great 
advance since the day when Dr. Johnson 
said that they all read. Had the learned 
Doctor been a contemporary of Mrs. Henry 
Wood, Mks Broughton, Mrs. Pender Cud- 

lip, and a host of other women dear to 
modern publishers, he might have remarked 
that all our ladies write now, which is an- 
other great extension. He might alio 
have observed how in these days the bur- 
den of reading " what the world reads at 
the moment " has become almost greater 
than we can bear. Under the pressure 
of sensational novels and . special corre- 
spondence, he might perhaps have become 
less willing to acknowledge the necessity 
of conforming to the world in this matter. 
And if the incautious Boswell were now 
to confess that, much as he desired to read 
somethiug solid, he found that the quan- 
tity of current literature had grown bo 
enormous that he had no time to spare for 
anything else, we can well imagine the 
severity with which he would be rebuked 
by his venerable friend. 

Some men are apt to fancy that read- 
ing trash is peculiarly a woman's weak- 
ness. "It is perfectly true,' 1 they say, 
" that many of us read little enough of any 
kind; but what we do read is not sac a 
abominable stuff as what our wives aud 
sisters read." And this hypothesis seems 
to have lately received some support from 
the writings and speeches of divers strong- 
minded ladies, who, in pursuit of a more 
or 16ss worthy object, have paraded before 
the public the hollowuess and frivolity of 
Englishwomen's lives. But the hypothe- 
sis is not altogether defensible. It is true 
perhaps that women read more of the trash 
of fiction than men do. But it does not at 
all follow that, because a man does not read 
trashy novels, therefore what he does read 
is worth reading. On the contrary, there 
is probably quite as much unworthy read- 
ing among men who read at all as among 
women. The trash upon which men waste 
their time is not so much the trash of nov- 
els as the trash of newspapers. It is true 
perhaps that an excessive devotion to 
newspapers does not produce such palpa- 
bly evil effects as are produced by an un- 
due devotion to novels. But the evil done 
is nevertheless real and considerable. Ex- 
cessive newspaper reading may not stimu- 
late a morbid self-consciousness, or fill tbe 
miud with all sorts of absurd fancies about 
friends and enemies, about the tyranny of 
society, the rights aud wrongs of lovers, 
and the poetry of an unreasonable or un- 
lawful attachment ; but it is nevertheless a 
sure destroyer of mental health. Its ef- 
fect is to corrupt the judgment, to weaken 
the sense of mental discrimination, to dis- 
courage intellectual initiative, and gener- 
ally to deaden the mental powers by sub- 
stituting a habit of mechanical for a habit 




of intelligent reading. The confirmed 
news reader — the man who reads through, 
at least, the Times before going to business 
in the morning, who after business hours 
gets through large portions of one or two 
other morning papers, skims the Pall Mall 
Gazette, and clips into the Echo and Globe, 
oily varying or amplifying his studies, ac- 
cording to the day of the week or the 
amount of his leisure time, by excursions 
into tbe prolific regions of the weekly, the 
monthly, the comic, and the illustrated 
periodicals, and who finds that all the time 
be can spare for reading is fully occupied 
ia the pursuit of this fugitive literature — 
it destroying his brain power as sorely as 
the man who smokes a short pipe at every 
qiare hoar is destroying his digestion. 
And yet there are thousand* of reason- 
able and fairly well-educated raeu who are 
mere or less slaves to such a slovenly 
habit of reading. Their mode of opera- 
tion is as follows : — They take up a news- 
paper, and turn first of all to the tele- 
grams. This they do, not because they are 
ia the least degree anxious about the 
coarse of affairs, but because they have 
got into the habit of wanting to be fed 
with rt the latest intelligence." They de- 
sire to know the news, not because of 
its antecedents or ita consequences, but 
amply because it is " the news," and be- 
cause they have contracted a craving for 
it, as for snuf£ or for sherry and bitters. 
Having read all the news, home and for- 
eign, great and small, with an equal amount 
of interest and an equal lack of reflection, 
they pass on to the leadiug articles. Some 
few years a^o, before the Pall Mall Ga- 
zette and the Echo were started, they used 
to read tbe leading articles of one or two 
of tbe morning papers with a certain 
amount of attention ; seldom, indeed, with 
a view of considering whether what was 
taid in auy column was true or exagger- 
ated, or altogether erroneous, or of com- 
paring their own previous notions on any 
subject with those of the writer, but with 
sufficient care at ail events to enable them 
to make out to their own satisfaction the 
general drift of what was written. The 
more intelligent amoog them would take 
some trouble to ascertain, for instance, 
whether the Times did or did not consider 
steb a piece of foreign news to be import- 
»t,or what the Daily Telegraph thought 
Mr. Gladstone would do in consequence of 
w adverse vote, or what the Standard 
kad to say iu disparagement of any Lib- 
eral success ; partly because they wanted 
to get hold of something simple and tan- 
gible on which to rest and collect their 

▼ague and floating conceptions, and partly 
also because they wanted something to 
produce in conversation. But now the 
necessity for taking even so much mental 
trouble as this is removed. The short 
paragraphs in the evening^papers in which 
it is so neatly and clearly stated what 
" The Timer iuforms us," what ''The Daily 
Telegraph believes," and what " The Stand- 
ard laments," answer all the purpose, with 
a tenth of the trouble. They come out 
in plenty of time for dinner-table talk, 
and, being done> by professionals, are of 
course absolutely trustworthy. Conse- 
quently nil that the inveterate newsreader 
now does is languidly to run his eye over 
the leading articles in the hope of encoun- 
tering an anecdote, or a statistical para- 
graph, which shall put facts in a new or 
surprising form, so as to afford him a sen- 
sation. All the rest he leaves to the scis- 
sors-man of the evening journal, who cer- 
tainly extracts for him the essential thought 
of a leading article far more skilfully than 
he could do it for himself. From the 
leading articles he passes on, with no sen- 
sible alteration in his frame of mind, to 
the home and foreign correspondence. He 
skims the letter from Dublin in search of 
a Fenian outrage, and the letter from Paris 
in search of an intrigue or a duel. Let- 
ters on the Old Catholic movement and 
on the Athanasian Creed jostle through 
his mind with tetters, on Australian mut- 
ton and railway unpunctuality. lie dips 
into the law and sporting intelligence to 
see whether there is any bit of fuu about 
Mr. Whalley add "the Claimant," and 
whether " the Leviathan " has been making 
a sensational score at Montreal. He be- 
stows a little extra care on the repor* from 
Lord Penzance's Court, and fiually he 
takes refuge in the crops, the weather, the 
money-market, aud the little odds and enda 
of provincial news. Nine times out of ten 
he puts the paper down, after a long in- 
vestigation, with the important conclusion 
that " there's nothing iu it." But this does 
not deter him from taking up another, and 
going through it in much the same manner 
and with much the same result. All this 
time he is doing very little more than ex- 
ercising a mechanical art of reading. What 
he reads makes no sort of impression on 
him ; or, at best, affects him about as much 
as Aristotle says that the misfiortuues of 
the living affect their dead relatives. It 
passes through his mind like water through 
a sieve ; or sounds to him as the voices of 
the great and middle-sized bears did to 
Southey's little girl. 
From the circumstances of their lives 



men are more prone than women to fall 
into this habit of mechanical reading. A 
man goes to his business at ten o'clock in 
the morning:, and is closely occupied by it 
till six or seven in the evening. What he 
read* he reads when he is more or less 
tired with the (fay's work. A woman, who 
is often able to sit down to a book for an 
hour or two before or after luncheon, reads 
with a comparatively fresh mind. But a 
busy man who is fond of reading, and 
anxious to keep up with current literature, 
finds that, six days out of the seven, he 
has to contend with a condition of mental, 
if not of bodily, fatigue. In this conditiou 
he is naturally disposed to pas3 over any- 
thing that requires thought or sustained 
attention, and to select what may be read 
with the least effort. And a very little 
yielding to this disposition will produce, 
even in cultivated men, a habit which may 
almost be said to be worse from an intel- 
lectual point of view than the habit of not 
reading at all. A man who is not reading 
may possibly be thinking. But a man who 
reads nothing but newspapers is exercising 
his mind in no greater degree than ho is 
when occupied in putting on hi3 clothes. 
The greatest safeguard perhaps agaiust 
the temptation to fall into this habit is an 
acquaintance with one or two foreign 
languages. The man who is tolerably well 
acquainted with French and German is 
comparatively safe from the allurements 

of the daily papers ; or, at any rate, if he 
finds he is becoming a slave to them, is 
better able to emancipate hinncif. He 
may determine to go without his newspaper 
studies for a time, or at least to cut them 
down to the lowest possible proportions, 
and to read something in German as a 
change. It is almost impossible, for most 
Englishmen at any rate, to read in a foreign 
language in the same unintcl.igent, mechan- 
ical manner that they can in their own. 

Unfortunately the number of English- 
men who, before being plunged into the 
rush of business, have acquired, in tho 
course of a public school or University 
career, a tolerable facility of reading in 
any foreign language is comparatively 
small. And the notion of beginning to 
acquire such a lauguage in leisure hours is 
probably too distasteful to the majority of 
men over twenty-one years of age to be 
worth consideration. Yet the difficulty of 
acquiring, even without any aid from a 
teacher, such a lauguage as German, for 
example, is just one of those difficulties 
which lose half their proportions when 
fairly faced. And one thing at any rate 
is quite certain ; that no man who has 
overcome such a difficulty has ever been 
known to regret the time and labour be- 
stowed on the process. Of how many 
things for which men make efforts can the 
same be truly declared V 

Notes about Cotton. — Cotton owes its 
kingship quite as much to the tenacity with 
which its fibres adhere to one another, as to 
their length or fineness; and were it not that 
the fibre produced by the bomb ax, or silk-cotton 
tree, is too smooth, cotton would find in it a 
powerful rival. Cot ton- wool is the downy bed 
in which the seeds of the cotton-plant are en- 
veloped, and is the product of hot countries. 
It has several varieties, that cultivated in Al- 
geria and in Southern Europe seldom attaining 
a height of over twelve inches, while at the 
equator the plant grows as high as an apple- 
tree, and bears a fruit twice as large as that of 
the Algerian species. The cotton grown in the 
East Indies is of very inferior quality, its fibre 
being short and hard ; yet it was largely used 
in manufacture, during the war in tho United 
States. Chinese cotton is yellow, and hence the 
pecular color of the fabric called nankeen. 

The cotton-plant is probably a native of Af- 

rioa, and Livingstone found it in tho interior of 
that country along the banks of all the rivers. 
The ancient Egyptians doubtless imported from 
Abyssiuia their ootton cloth for mum my- wrap- 
pings aud for the garments of priests and no- 
bles, and from them the Jews inherited the em- 
ployment of that texture fur the robes of their 
priests; for, where the Bible mikes mention of 
fine linen, we must read cotton, as flax does 
not grow in hot olimates. From Africa cotton- 
culture passed into Persia and Georgia; then 
into India, and from India to China. In the 
latter empire all the clothing of the poorer 
classes is of cotton, of extremely firm texture. 
Indeed, so strong is the cotton manufactured by 
the Chinese, that it is impossible far a man to 
tear a piece of it across; and the people of 
China and India refuse to buy European cotton 
manufactures, calling them mere spiders* webs. 
— Dr. Saco, in Popular Science Monthly for 


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Trine L 


No. 1492,— January U, 1873. 

(Fran Beginni ng, 
C Vol. GXVL 


Jim* 8n.viu » PioooLOifm, Pom Pm II. By 

M. Creighton. Parti., .... Macmillan't Magazine , 

Hb Little Sebbkb Highwess. Pari H., Trans- 
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Thi Aibicah Pbayee-Book. A Liturgical Stud/, Contemporary Review, 

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Dooa whom I bate Bin Cornkill Magazine, . 

In Am Chapter or the Qbolooiou. Reoosd. 

By David Forbes, F.R.8., . . . . Popular Science Review, 

lLuamAKDro by Aoteetisexevy, . . Pall Mall Gazette, . 

The Rm or Gseat Faxilieb, .... Spectator, . 

Sokkbvtxu Pall Mall Gazette, . 


the Fnm By OUter Wendell | Foe the New Teae, 

Holmes, 66 I Layixia, 









76, 88, 128 





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Another year! another year 
Has borne its record to the skies; 

Another year! another year 
Untried, unproved, before us lies; 

We hail with smiles its dawning ray — 

How shall we meet its final day T 

Another year! another year! 

Its squandered hours will ne'er return. 
Oh many a heart must quail with fear 

O'er memory's blotted page to turn. 
No> record from that leaf will fade. 
Not one erasure may be made. 

Another year! another year! 

How many a grief has marked its flight! 
Some whom we love no more are here — 

Translated to the realms of light 
Ah! none can bless the coming year 
Like those no more to greet us here. 

Another year! another year! 

Oh! many a blessing, too, was given, 
Our lives to deck, our hearts to cheer, 

And antedate the joys of Heaven. 
Bat they, too, slumber with the past. 
Where joys and griefs must sink at last 

Another year! another year! 

Gaze we no longer on the past, 
Nor let us shrink with faithless fear, 

From the dark shade the future oasts. 
The past, the future — what are they 
To those whose lives may end to-day? 

Another year! another year! 

Perchance the last of life below; 
Who ere its close Death's call may hear, 

None but the Lord of life can know. 
Oh! to be found whene'er that day 
May come, prepared to pass away. 

Another year! another year! 

Help us earth's thorny paths to tread; 
So may each moment bring us near 

To Thee, ere yet our lives are fled. 
Saviour! we yield ourselves to Thee, 
For time and for eternity. 

'< The Changed Cross." 

[From The Atlantic Monthly for January.] 


While far along the eastern sky 
I saw the flags of Havoc fly, 
As if his forces would assault 
The sovereign of the starry vault 
And hurl Him back the burning rain 
That seared the cities of the plain, 
I read as on a crimson page 
The words of Israel's sceptred sage : 

For riches make them wings, and they 
Do as an eagle fly away. 

O vision of that sleepless night. 
What hue shall paint the mocking light 
That burned and stained the orient skies 
Where peaceful morning loves to rise, 
As if the sun had lost his way 
And dawned to make a second day, — 
Above how red with fiery glow. 
How dark to those it woke below! 

On roof and wall, on dome and spire, 
Flashed the false jewels of the fire; 
Girt with her belt of glittering panes, 
And crowned with starry-gleaming vanes, 
Our northern queen in glory shone 
With new-bom splendors not her own, 
And stood, transfigured in our eyes, 
A victim decked for sacrifice! 

The cloud still hovers overhead, 

And still the midnight sky is red; 

As the lost wanderer strays alone 

To seek the plaoe he called his own, 

His devious footprints sadly tell 

How changed the pathways known so well; 

The scene, how new! The tale how old 

Ere yet the sashes have grown cold! 

Again I read the words that came 
Writ in the rubric of the flame; 
Howe'er we trust to mortal things, 
Each hath its pair of folded wings; 
Though long their terrors rest unspread, 
Their fatal plumes are never shed; 
At last, at last, they stretch in flight, 
/ And blot the day and blast the night! 

Hope, only Hope, of all that clings 
Around us never spreads her wings; 
Love, though he break his earthly chain. 
Still whispers he will come again ;• 
But Faith, that soars to seek the sky. 
Shall teach our half-fledged souls to fly, 
And find, beyond the smoke and' flame, 
The cloudless azure whence they came! 
Boston, November 13, 1872. 


(Suggested oy Mr, O. D. Leslie's Picture.) 

Golden ears in the oornfields bow, 

Just now coming to man's estate; 
If they have listen'd they've heard, ere now, 

Reapers will come ere there's long to wait. 
But they don't mind : falling autumn leaves 

Tell them the cold winds are coming anew; 
So they are happy to swell the sheaves 

Of such a dear little girl as you ! 

While you are seated upon the stile, 

What are you thinking of, maiden fair T 
Do dreams of love your sweet heart beguile ? — 

Would that my image were piotured there! 
All sorts and manners of styles there are, 

English, and foreigu from over the sea; 
Ah! but there's one I like best by far — 

The stile where you sit is the stile for me! 

Tinsley's Magazine. 



From MacmfllaiTs Magastne. 


Okcb, and once only, in its history has 
the Papacy been identified with the gen- 
eral coarse of European literature and 
culture, and the experience of that epoch 
certainly does not encourage it to repeat 
the experiment. The Renaissance came so 
suddenly, and came from so many sides at 
once, that the Papacy in its enfeebled con- 
dition at the time had no opportunity for 
really examining it, had lost its firm hold 
upon its old traditions, and found itself 
committed to the new movement before it 
bad weighed the consequences or really de- 
termined upon its policy. It was no longer 
the rigorous medieval power that had 
crashed the rising- movements of the 
twelfth century, had cowed Abelard, had 
uprooted the growing literature of Prov- 
ence, had stopped the political speculations 
of Arnold of Brescia, and had re-asserted 
to sway over the rebellious intellect of 
Europe ; but the Papacy of the Renaissance 
was the crippled power that emerged from 
the French captivity, the long schism, the 
hoods of the general councils, — emerged 
an object of general suspicion, degraded 
even in its own eyes, with no weapons but 
its own craftiness, with no aim- but its 
own restoration, at all events in Italy, 
to decent respect, with no policy except 
thai prevalent in Italy at the time — to 
promise everything asked, and perform as 
little as possible. 

Under such circumstances the Papacy 
was not disposed to add to its many ene- 
mies the men of the new learning : it stood 
in too great need of them. The reforming 
views of the Council of Constance had been 
supported by men of high reputation and 
great erudition, such as Gerson and D' Ailly . 
The Papacy must have similar champions 
on its side ; and it was useless in its hour 
of need to look for a deeper qualification 
than a power of writing elegant Latin 
prose. The rising scholars were only too 
ready to offer themselves to any one who 
would appreciate their services : to minds 
exulting in the glories of antiquity the en- 
thusiasms and aspirations of the day mat- 
tered little ; culture had made them ambi- 

tious, and they longed for a sphere in which 
they might distinguish themselves. They 
wanted money, if only to buy books : ought 
not the world to belong to the wise ? But 
wisdom unfortunately was badly paid by 
those in power ; the Pope was more likely 
to appreciate it than any one else who had 
money to expend : and then at the Papal 
Court they might write letters in the style 
of Cicero, and histories in the style of Livy, 
and deliver orations equal to any of the 
great productions of antiquity on the occa- 
sion of every fresh arrival of ambassadors 
from a foreign prince. Hence came the al- 
liance between the Papacy and the scholars 
of the Renaissance, by which Poggio, Leo- 
nardo Bruni, Guarino, and Francesco Filel- 
fo were all Papal secretaries. Even Lauren- 
tius Valla, in spite of his audacious use of 
criticism in proving the falsity of the Dona- 
tion of Constantino, was pardoned after a 
slight apology ; and honest souls like Cam- 
pano were rewarded for sprightly epigrams 
and jovial manners by bishoprics which 
they never visited, and whose revenues they 
thought needlessly encumbered by the obli- 
gation to wear a long and inconvenient gar- 
ment and look solemn in public. 

The Papacy reaped for a while the ad- 
vantages of this alliance. Rome, from the 
time of Nicholas V. to that of Leo X., was 
the literary and artistic capital of Europe ; 
the Popes recovered their external posi- 
tion, the open antagonism of France and 
Germany was for a while extinguished, and 
the Papal revenues flowed in securely ; but 
these advantages were bought by a heavy 
price. Rome, given up to art and litera- 
ture, ceased to have much care for religion ; 
and Erasmus was startled to find in Rome 
that no one was considered to be in the 
fashion who did not hold some false or 
erroneous opinion about the dogmas of the 
Church, that the Cardinals made oath " by 
the immortal gods," and proved the souls 
of men and beasts to be the same. The 
Papacy, which had so long held fast to the 
orthodox faith at all hazards, had now 
fallen victim to a heresy worse than any 
she had in former times combated — the 
heresy of the Renaissance. It needed the 
voice of Luther and the defection of half 
Christendom to rouse Rome from its re- 
fined sensualism, and bring back the old 



severe rigid system which won new victo- 
ries and put forth new strength in the 

The most characteristic personage in the 
history of the Papacy during the Renais- 
sance period is without doubt JEueas Syl- 
vius Bartolomeus Piccolomini, Pope Pius 
II. Born in 1405 at Corsignano, a little 
village near Siena, of an old noble family, 
which had decayed owing to the democratic 
movement of mediaeval Italy, he made his 
way in the world solely by his own abili- 
ties and tact — a veritable Gil Bias of the 
Middle Ages, who saw that the world was 
all before him, and was determined to use 
it for his own ends. In early life he had 
little to help him, as he was one of a fam- 
ily of eighteen, and in his youth worked 
with his own hands in the few fields his 
father still possessed ; but his brothers and 
sisters died except two, aud at the age of 
eighteen J2neas, the only surviving son, 
left home to study law in Siena. Law, 
however, was distasteful to him, and his 
ambition soared higher than an advocated 
gown : he preferred general literature, and 
was an unceasing student of the classics — 
nay, he even managed to scrape together 
money to go for a little while to Florence 
and attend the lectures of Francesco Fil- 
elfo. He obtained a reputation in Siena 
by writing Latin love poems, and by other 
small literary efforts, and so when he had 
reached the age of twenty-six he was 
recommended as a clever young man, well 
fitted to fill the post of secretary to Do- 
me nico da Capranica, who was passing 
through Siena on his way to Basle, where 
the Council had just begun to sit. Ca- 
pranica had a complaint against the new 
Pope, Eugenius IV., who had refused to 
confirm him in a cardinalate conferred by 
his predecessor. 

iEneas was delighted to leave Siena and 
plunge into the great world of politics ; 
and his first experiences at Basle showed 
his penetrating mind the path to success. 
He found the Council full of needy adven- 
turers and place-hunters, men of culture 
like himself, who hoped in these troubled 
times to turn their wits to good purpose, 
and reap advantages which quiet days 
would never have put within their reach. 
There were undoubtedly many worthy and 

high-minded men who were the chief mov- 
ers of the Council, but still the efforts for 
reform rested upon no sure foundation, 
since the whole movement was little more 
than a rising of the ecclesiastical aristoc- 
racy against the Papal monarchy, stimulat- 
ed by the ordinary aristocratic desire to 
share the monarch's plunder. Hence, in 
spite of the efforts of many honorable 
men, the question at issue between the 
Pope and the Council soon became a 
struggle who should get the larger share 
in a general scramble for Churoh patron- 

JSneas soon learned to estimate the 
Council at its true value, and also had op- 
portunities of studying the condition of 
Europe generally. Between the years 
1482-35 he was in the service of various 
masters, with whom he visited almost every 
country in Europe — saw the weakness of 
Germany by attending a Diet at Frank- 
fort, learned the exhaustion of France after 
its English wars, and admired the power 
of Burgundy and the wealth of Flanders ; 
saw the barbarism of Scotland ; travelled 
in disguise from Newcastle to London in 
company of a justice in eyre, who little 
knew to whom he was revealing his views 
on English politics and his complaints 
against the feeble Henry VI.; in Italy 
also he learned the policy of Filippo Maria 
Vtsconti of Milan, and saw the immense 
influence of Nicoolo Piccinino, the great 
leader of condottieri. So in 1436 he came 
back to Basle an expert in intrigue, and 
with a reputation which was sure to be of 

iEneas himself gives an instance of the 
Council's zeal for reform. He had man- 
aged to insinuate himself into the good 
graces of the Archbishop of Milan, who 
showed his appreciation of his elegant Lat- 
inity by conferring on him, though still a 
layman, a canonry in the church of San 
Ambrogio at Milan. For this irregular 
appointment the dispensation of the Coun- 
cil was necessary: true, the Council pro- 
fessed to be engaged in putting down such 
irregularities, and attacked nothing more 
fiercely than Papal dispensations; but 
JSneas was a worthy man who had done 
good service to the Council — it was hard 
to refuse one who had such good capacities 



for badness, so pleasant a manner, such 
ready tact, a happy way of gloxing over 
difficulties and settling disputes; finally? 
the charming modesty and graceful def- 
erence of his speech quite decided the 
matter : " I ask nothing which may be con- 
trary to your honour : I would prefer your 
favour, Fathers, without possession of the 
canonry, to a capitular election with full 
possession." What wonder that a univer- 
sal murmur of applause followed this de- 
lightfal compliment, and .ASneas's adver- 
saries were not even allowed to speak ? 

This was JEneas's first taste of ecclesias- 
tical preferments : as yet he had no inten- 
tion of taking orders. He lived in a small 
circle of humanists, and we know from his 
letters to his friends that his life at this 
time was one of the grossest sensuality. 
Itwasinfact the utter and unrestrained 
character of his indulgences, unredeemed 
by any noble feeling,* that saved him from 
the fatal crime of marriage, by which so 
many of the early humanists, before they 
clearly saw their way in life, were unfortu- 
nate enough to cut themselves off from the 
golden road of clerical preferment. Princi- 
ples, JEneas had none : his Basle speeches 
are eloquent, suave, and empty. When 
the breach between the Pope and Council 
openly broke out, and they excommuni- 
cated one another, iBneas, bound by his 
csnonry to the Council, composed tractates, 
pronounced scathing invectives, and wrote 
scurrilous libels against the Pope ; al- 
though, as he says in his first letter of 
retractation, "I was like a young bird 
that had escaped from the University of 
Siena, and knew nothing either of the 
manners of the Curia or the life of Eogen- 
ina." He was a literary adventurer, ready 
to turn his pen to the best account. 

In this respect he was merely a repre- 
sentative of the general character of the 
early Renaissance, which was a reaction 
against scholasticism, against the monkery 
and bigotry of the Middle Ages. It was 
of little consequence what side was taken, 
what principles supported — all were 
equally unimportant to the man of culture 
—he must only be careful to act in a be- 

• " Flares vldl am&vtqae fismlnas qaaram exinde 
pefitaa magfinm muoppi tedium." 

coming way in public, and express himself 
in good Latin. It is very characteristic 
that JSneaa, after he became Pope, still 
made no effort to stop the publication of 
the more immoral of his youthful letters, 
or of his novel " Lucre tia and Euryaius ; " 
the entire series was revised by him in his 
later days, and all were allowed to descend 
to posterity together. Pope Pius, it is true, 
wrote a letter of penitence, to be published 
with the rest. He wrote them, he says, 
when he was young in years and in mind 
— (yet " Lucretia and Euryaius " was 
written when he was forty) — they contain 
moral and edifying doctrines, to those who 
will use them aright. "What we wrote 
in our youth about love, avoid it, O men, 
despise it. Follow what we now say, and 
believe the old man more than the youth. 
Regard not the layman higher than the 
priest. Reject JEneas; receive Pius" 
("JEneam rejicite; Pium suscipite "). 
Really, these letters were among the most 
popular that JEneas wrote, and he was 
proud of them ; his literary fame required 
their circulation: as humanist he could 
justify them by many excellent parallels 
from antiquity ; as Pope he made a decent 
apology for them. 

JSneas was prepared to turn his hand to 
anything : he wrote love-verses ; he deliv- 
ered speeches ; he was even appointed by 
the Archbishop of Milan to preach a ser- 
mon in honour of St. Ambrose. The theo- 
logians were indignant at this preference 
of a layman, but the majority of the Coun- 
cil preferred the more sparkling style and 
lively manner of JSneas, and listened, he 
tells us, " with wondrous attention." He 
wrote a history of the Council of Basle in 
the style of Caesar's Commentaries, and 
dialogues in defence of its principles after 
the style of Cicero's "Tusculans." If it 
were possible to satisfy everybody, JSneaa 
would try and do so. 

By this means he obtained a secure 
position at Basle, and held many offices 
in the Council ; but Basle day by day be- 
came a less important place, and a less 
satisfactory field for a man of ability who 
wished to succeed. The Council had sat 
so long and done so little that it began to 
lose prestige. In 1438 France withdrew, 
and settled its own Church Reform by the 



Pragmatic Sanction of Boarges, while 
Germany at the same time proclaimed 
itself neutral between Pope and Council. 
The assembled Fathers of Basle ventured, 
when it was now too late, upon a decisive 
step: they brought their conflict with Eu- 
genius to an issue by deposing him, and 
elected in his stead Amaaeus, the retired 
Duke of Savoy, in the hope that his name 
and political influence would win back to 
the Council the allegiance of the princes of 
Europe. But they were doomed to disap- 
pointment, for Felix V. was too unused to' 
ecclesiastical matters to act the Pops to 
the satisfaction of those around him, and 
was too skilled in the ways of the world to 
spend his money without a due return. 
The place-hunters of Basle found that they 
would have to maintain their Pope instead 
of receiving from him ; he refused to rob 
his children of their inheritance, and the 
various national Churches showed no dis- 
position to give him so much recognition 
as to confer a right over their revenues; 
Under these sad circumstances, the Coun- 
cil began to thin daily. JEneas, though he 
was made Pope Felix's secretary, thought 
heiiad better move elsewhere ; and, accord- 
ingly, while on an embassy to Frederic of 
Germany, he contrived to produce a favour- 
able impression on the Bishop of Chiemsee, 
by whom Frederic was induced to confer 
upon him the honour of crowning him 
Poet with his own hand. It was an odd 
distinction, and would be little understood 
by the Germans. Frederic himself cared 
little about poetty, and JEueas certainly 
was not a poet ; but it pleased his vanity 
to think that his talents were now appre- 
ciated, and he transferred himself from the 
service of Felix to that of Frederic, as clerk 
in the Imperial Chancery. He is not 
ashamed to account for his conduct later : 
" When all were leaving Felix and refusing 
to recognize his Papacy, I betook myself j 
to the Emperor Frederic ; for 1 did not : 
wish to change directly from one side to | 
the other." iEneas wished to get a good 
position in Germany, and use it as a van- 
tage-ground from which to reconcile him- 
self decently with the Papacy, and even 
gain its gratitude. So at the age of thirty - 
beven JEneas left Basle, and went into 
Germany as a prophet of culture. At £rst 
he was bitterly disappointed. He writes 
soon after his arrival, in utter despair, to 
a friend : " Here must I live aud die, with- 
out relations, without friends, without ac- 
quaintances, without any conversation with 
you and my other friends. Would that I 
had never seen Basle, for then I would 
have died in my own land, and laid my 

head on my parent's bosom. Now I may say 
I am as good as dead, for my life does not 
differ from Ovid's when he lived in banish- 
ment in the land of Tomi." The Emperor 
took no notice of him ; he was merely a 
clerk in the Chancery ; he was disgusted 
with the German manners of his fellow- 
clerks, and they were disgusted by his 
morals; even his talents were not ap- 
preciated, for he wrote a comedy in the 
style of Terence, which only increased 
their contempt for his moral character. 
But JEneas was supported in his trials. 
" Many things there are which compel us 
to persevere, but nothing more powerfully 
than ambition, which, rivalling charity, 
truly beareth all things, however grievous, 
that it may attain to the honour* of this 
world and the praise of men. If we were 
humble and laboured to gain our own 
souls rather than hunt after vain-glory, 
few of us indeed would endure 6uch an- 
noyances. Under the influence of these 
feelings iEneas wrote his most popular 
treatise, " On the Miseries of Courtiers," 
in which he details with querulous humour 
all the grievances of his position, from the 
ingratitude of the prince to the sordeur of 
the table-cloths and hardness of the black 
bread. But hardest to bear of all is the 
contempt shown towards literature: "In 
the courts of princes literary knowledge is 
held a crime ; and great is the grief of men 
of letters when they find themselves uni- 
versally despised, and see the most import- 
ant matters managed, not to say misman- 
aged, by blockheads who cannot tell the 
numbers of their fingers and toes." 

But preseutly things looked more bright 
to him, for he gained the favour of Gaspar 
Schlick, the Chancellor, a man who had 
risen by his own taleuts, and who was op- 
posed to the aristocratic party at court. 
Schlick knew the value of the keen-eyed 
Italian in watching court intrigues and 
letting him know about them ; and there 
are many letters of JEneas to Schlick, 
which show how acutely he could serve 
his patron. And so, through Schlick's fa- 
vour, iEnea's became better known at the 
court, and his talents consequently were 
more appreciated. The young Sigismund, 
Duke of Austria, a boy of seventeen, under 
Frederic's guardianship, asks JBneas to 
write him a Latin love-letter, which he 
does with an appropriate address on the 
uses of love and literature and the con- 
nection between the two. Now, too, he 
wrote his very questionable novel of " Lu- 
cre tia and Euryalus." His private life 
seems still to be one of unprincipled self- 



But meanwhile, in his ecclesiastical 
opinions, JEneas is slowly feeling his war 
round to that side which he sees will ulti- 
mately prevail; at present he wishes to 
follow his masters and be neutral. His 
letters consequently utter sentiments fa- 
vourable to Eugenius or to Basle, or ex- 
pressive of entire indifference, as he may 
think most convenient ; but his purpose is 
fixed to make the best of his position and 
take no false step. " The whole of Chris- 
tendom," he writes to a friend, u favours 
Eugenius. Germany only is divided, 
though I could wish to see her united, and 
so adapt myself to her ! for I regard this 
nation as very important, since it is not 
influenced by fear, bnt by its own caprice 
or judgment. To whichever side the 
King and the Electors incline, thither will 
my little soul follow them ; for I may not 
trust myself more than others." He pro- 
fesses in another letter the most fervent 
intention of following his master : " Tou 
know that I serve a neutral prince, who, 
holding the middle course, strives after 
reconciliation. It is not right for servants 
to wish other than their master's will. I 
▼ill win the king's favour ; I will obey the 
king, will follow him where he will ; I will 
oppose him in nothing ; I will meddle with 
nothing that does not concern me. I am 
a foreigner ; my purpose is to act the part 
of Gnatho : what they say, I say ; what 
they deny, I deny. If they act wisely, 
they shall enjoy the praise; if foolishly, 
they shall bear the disgrace. I envy no 
man's glory, and wish to grieve over no 
man's infamy." 

But ^Eneas soon had reasons for taking 
a keener interest in Church affairs. His 
patron Schlick wished to get the bishopric 
of Prising for his brother, but the canons 
elected another. Schlick,, did 
not despair; the bishopric might be ob- 
tained from others than the canons, and so 
he turned his attention to Pope Eugenius 
in the hope of securing what he wanted 
by his means. It entirely suited JEneas's 
plans to follow bis master in this ; by se- 
curing the recognition of Eugenius in Ger- 
many, h*e would obtain a strong hold upon 
the gratitude of Rome, and Rome was the 
only patron from whom a man of ability 
could gain substantial rewards. iEneas 
was now past middle age ; he had laboured 
hard and caught very little; for a small 
canonry at Aspach in the Tyrol was all he 
had to eke out his scanty salary as secre- 
tary. Politics, he now clearly saw, would 
never lead him to distinction or riches in 
Germany; the Church alone could give 
him wealth ; the Pope only could restore 

him to his native Italy, and confer upon 
him that position which he deserved. To 
take orders, be reconciled to the Pope, 
and, if possible, command his gratitude, 
were now the objects of JEneas's policy. 

The first of these was tolerably easy, 
as the conscientious objections which 
JSneas had felt in his early days had now 
disappeared. The fire of youth had burnt 
out, and his hair was now turning gray. 
The worship of Bacchus, he wrote to a 
friend, pleased him more - than that of , 
Venus; he had become practically con- 
vinced of the ill effects of his former fol- 
lies, and wrote letters of sound moral 
advice to his friends. There was nothing 
in his religious opinions to hinder him 
from becoming a good servant of ' the 
Church. He had always had strong re- 
ligious feelings ; while a boy at Siena, he 
had been so deeply moved by the preach- 
ing of Father Bernardino as to wish to 
become a monk, and in Scotland he had 
shown his thankfulness for an escape from 
shipwreck by making a painful pilgrimage 
of ten miles barefoot to a shrine of the 
Virgin. Nor had he any temptation to be 
free-thinking in his opinions : but he re- 
garded religious opinions and religious 
observances as the special province of the 
priesthood, and thought that others need 
not be troubled with them. At the end 
of his dialogues on the Basle Council, he 
gives his opinion that men of letters ought 
not to be disturbed by the sound of so 
many church-bells, and ought to be reck- 
oned good Christians without being re- 
quired to take so many hours from their' 
studies for religious services. JSneas was 
never accused of unorthodoxy ; he had re- 
formed his morals, and so, at the age of 
forty he felt he could conscientiously take 
orders. " I have a piece of news for you," 
he writes, " that will surprise you. I am 
now a sub-deacon — a thing I once used 
to shudder at. But the light-mindedness 
that grows amongst laymen has now left 
me, and there is nothing I love so much as 
the priesthood." 

JEneas next entered upon the career on 
which his political fame is founded, and 
became the means of bringing back to the 
Papacy the still neutral German Church. 
He was a bold man to undertake an em- 
bassy to Pope Eugenius, whom he had 
covered with every kind of infamy, and 
against whom he had brought to bear 
every kind of argument three years before. 
When he reached Siena, his relatives be- 
sought him not to venture into Rome. 
JEneas answered with dignity that the 
Emperor's ambassador need have no fear ; 



he knew, however, that he had a more ef- 
fectual title to the Pope's consideration. 
After being privately assured of his ac- 
ceptance, he made in public a decent apol- 
ogy to Eugenius: he had gone astray, Dut 
who had not V He had acted for the^glory 
of God and of the Church, and bow ma- 
ture reflection had brought change of 
mind. Eugenius assured him of forgive- 
ness, and the secret negotiations were 

The task which iBneas had undertaken 
' was a bard one, and the bargain which he 
negotiated was most scandalous: partly 
for ready money, partly for rights to spoil 
the German Church, Frederic sold the 
German obedience. Still it was a hard 
matter to win over the independent and 
strongly national feeling of the Electors, 
who despised Frederic's feebleness and 
were repelled by the monastic sternness 
of Eugenius. iBneas, however, succeeded : 
he cajoled the king ; he bribed the Arch- 
bishop of Mainz ; and on the night before 
the final vote of the Diet he ventured to 
alter with his own hand the Pope's in- 
structions to his Legates, so as to make 
them just endurable to the Electors' ears. 
By this means he secured a majority for 
the Pope, and hurried at onco to Rome to 
have the matter formally settled. 

The Pope was ill in bed, and wished be- 
fore he died to see this lingering quarrel 
brought to an end. Against the wish of 
the Cardinals he signed the Provisions a 
few days before his death, and almost the 
last act of his eventful pontificate was to 
confer on JSneas the bishopric of Trieste. 
JSneas had well earned his reward, and 
had gained what was of equal importance 
to him, a claim to the remembrance of 
posterity* He had given the last blow to 
the Basle Council, to the anti-pope Felix, 
to the rebellion of Germany against the 
Papacy : he had not lived in vain. But 
JEneas, like all great men, was not at once 
appreciated. The successor of Eugenius, 
Tommaso Parentucelli, Pope Nicolas V., 
was* a high-minded and honourable man, 
devoted to study ; of an excitable tempera-' 
ment, which, under the burden of the Pa- 
pacy, led him into excess in wine ; choleric 
even to his friends, self-willed, with a con- 
tempt for the intrigues of the Curia, and a 
desire to make the Papacy the centre of Eu- 
ropean learning. To a man of such aims 
and of such a character IBneas, whom he 
had well known in his youthful days, must 
have seemed the most contemptible of 
men; and though Nicolas was compelled 
to use his services, he never trusted him. 
JSneas was sent back to Germany, where 

he had leisure to write letters of recanta- 
tion and apology for his former life and 
opinions ; and was obliged, sorely against 
his will, to apply himself again to German 

His talents were there principally em- 
ployed in arranging Frederic's marriage, 
and preparing for his journey to Rome to 
receive the Imperial Crown. His account 
of the proceedings in which he took part 
gives us a strange picture of the feeble- 
ness of Frederic and the suspicions of the 
Italians. JSneas went to Siena to await 
there the coming of Leonora of Portugal, 
Frederic's betrothed bride ; the people of 
Siena were afraid at the presence of their 
influential countryman ; they feared that he 
would plot some revolution in their Re- 
public ; and iEneas found it prudent to re- 
tire to the port of Talamone, where he 
spent sixty days in tedious expectation. 
Frederic met his bride in Siena, whose 
citizens, in spite of their former fears, tes- 
tified their loyalty in a painfully modern 
way. " They erected afterwards a marble 
column as a perpetual memorial to poster- 
ity, that the Emperor who came from the 
East, and the Empress who came from the 
West, there first encountered one an- 
other." But JSneas had not only to make 
loyal speeches ; he had also to exert him- 
self to keep the Pope from being at the 
last moment terrified at the thought of the 
possible consequence of receiving so pow- 
erful a guest in his rebellious city. Nicolas 
tried to put off the coronation, bat JEneas 
stoutly resisted; he wrote that he mar- 
veiled at this sudden change of the Apos- 
tolic mind : that it was not honourable for 
the Pope to withdraw from his promise. 
Nicolas was comforted by his guarantee 
of Frederic's good behaviour, and the 
ceremony passed off without any disturb- 
ance. JEneas appeared on that occasion 
as the Emperor's chief adviser, and ru- 
mour began to destine him to the Cardinal- 

But soon a new and grander interest 
was opened to JEneas, one to which his 
fame is permanently attached. The news 
of the danger of Constantinople from the 
Turks (1453) caused a sensation through- 
out Europe. Frederic was glad to be 
brought into prominence as the head of 
Christendom : he was contemptible enough 
as the head of Germany. The Pope, 
though he felt he was really powerless, 
was glad to have a chance of having grants 
made by the faithful, and '< Turk taxes " 
imposed, which he could well spend in re- 
building Rome and enriching the Vatican 
Library which ho had just founded. But 



the humanists, above all others, took up 
the cause with aridity, partly from real 
sympathy with the Greeks, many of whom 
they knew, and some of them had visited 
Constantinople ; but very greatly from the 
fact that here was an opportunity opened 
to them for eloquent appeals and fierce 
invective: they had a great capacity for 
writing, and hailed with delight any sub- 
ject that admitted of classical treatment. 
The Turk literature, begun by Poggio, and 
continued by Filelfo and JSneas, with a 
crowd of imitators, makes by itself almost 
a library. ^Eneas breaks forth at once 
into a wail : " What shall I say about the 
innumerable books at Constantinople not 
yet known to the Latins ? Alas I how 
many names of famous men will perish I It 
will be a second death to Homer ; a second 
dissolution to Plato. Where now shall we 
look for great philosophers or poets ? The 
fountain of the Muses is choked up." But 
the impression on JEneas's mind was not 
a mere passing one ; the idea of delivering 
Europe from the Turks took hold upon 
him, and became a real part of his object 
in life. At first he furbished up his elo- 
quence, and delivered polished Latin 
speeches at German Diets to incite them 
to support the Emperor in the crusade ; 
but the Germans were not so satisfied 
either with Emperor or Pope as to hand 
themselves over unconditionally to their 
guidance. They raised inconvenient ques- 
tions about reform both in Church and 
State, which it required all JSneas's in- 
genuity to ward off. Luckily the Diet was 
brought to an end by the Pope's death, as 
it was thought the questions might be 
better raised with the new Pope. Alfonso 
Borja, Pope Calixtus III., an old, bedridden 
man at the age of 77, had all the fire and 
violence of his native land : as a Spaniard 
he hated the Moslem, and a crusade was 
the main object of his pontificate. JEneas 
tricked the discontented Electors of Ger- 
many by selling to the new Pope, in the 
Emperor's name, the German obedience, at 
the price of his own cardinalate. The 
wily Italian was, indeed, too clever for the 
clumsy Germans. Thin is the third time 
that he has led the feeble Frederic as he 
thought fit, and has sacrificed the interests 
of the German Church, which he was sent 
to represent, to the requirements of his 
own ambition. .Sneas, however, did not 
tt once gain his reward, as the Pope had 
10 many nephews and Spanish grandees to 
provide for. It was not till December 
1456 that JEneas with delight left the un- 
congenial atmosphere of Germany, where 
for twelve years he had felt himself a 

stranger and a sojourner, and with decent 
expressions of his own unworthiness has- 
tened to Borne, " the Cardinal's only coun- 
try," as he called it. 

At Borne, however, he soon found that a 
poor Cardinal, who was not of royal or 
papal blood, had no chance of taking up an 
independent position. JEneas strove des- 
perately to make the most of his connec- 
| tion with Germany, and attain to political 
importance at the Papal Court. But Ger- ■ 
man affairs had now ceased to be of con- 
sequence ; the Pope cared little for general 
politics, and was devoted solely to two ob- 
jects — a crusade, and provision for his 
nephews. The restored Papacy had lost 
all its mediaeval grandeur and its old tra- 
ditions ; its policy was directed by the per- 
sonal interests or caprices of the individual 
Popes, who were more bent on advancing 
their relatives than promoting the interests 
of Christendom. £k> one Pope undid the 
work of another. Calixtus tore the splen- 
did bindings from the books which Nicolas 
had collected, and sold them for the pur- 
poses of a crusade: and the old friends 
and advisers of Nicolas had no weight 
with Calixtus, who was entirely under the 
influence of his nephews : so that the 
Borjas ruled in Borne, and the Cardinals 
who could not submit to them must seek 
refuge elsewhere. JSneas accepted this 
position, and entered at once into close 
intimacy with Cardinal Bodrigo Borja, * 
afterwards infamous as Pope Alexander 
VL When he was away from Borne, 
Mne&a watched over his interests, and 
tried his best to share equally all vacant 
benefices between himself aud his friend. 
It is quite touching to read of the sad dis- 
appointments they sometimes met with. 
" As regards benefices," writes JSneas, u I 
will take care both for you and me. But 
we have been deceived by false reports. 
He who we heard had died in Niirnberg 
was here the other day and dined with 
me. So, too, the Bishop of Toul, who was 
said to have died at Neustadt in Austria, 
has returned in good health. But still I 
will keep my eyes open if any benefice 
shall fall vacant." 

That JEneas was a poor man was cer- 
tainly not his own fault in the first instance, 
and was one which he strove his best to 
amend. He procured from the Pope a 
monstrous grant of a general reservation 
of benefices to the value of 2,000 ducats 
in Germany, and his letters show the great- 
est eagerness to fill up the amount as soon 
as possible. But JEneas did not trust to 
the slow means of wealth to gain import- 
ance at Borne. He had learned the art of 



winning oyer men ; had learned from the 
necessities of his early yean how injudi- 
cious it was to make an enemy, how easy 
it was to make himBelf agreeable. So 
among all the different parties and all the 
personal animosities of the Roman Court, 
iEneaa managed to move with grateful 
sweetness, never took up the enmities of 
a party with which he might ally himself, 
and refused to give offence to any one ; he 
corresponds even with the absent Cardi- 
nals in a tone of good-natured friendliness. 
And for this JEneaa was recompensed ; 
for on the death of Calixtus (1458) it 
became obvious to the Italians that the 
only candidate who was sufficiently unob- 
jectionable to have any chance against 
Estouteville, Cardinal of Rouen, who had 
the French influence and bis own great 
wealth in his favour, was Piccolomini, 
Cardinal of Siena. There were eighteen 
Cardinals present at the conclave : two- 
thirds of the votes were necessary for an 
election. On the second scrutiny it was 
found JEneas had nine votes, Estouteville 
only six. The assembled Cardinals pro- 
ceeded then to try the method of vote u by 
accession," as it was called. "They sat 
all in their places, Bilent and pale, as 
though they nad been rapt by the Holy 
Ghost. No one for some time spoke or 
opened his mouth; no one moved any 
member of his body except his eyes, which 
he cast on various sides. Wondrous was 
the silence, wondrous the appearance of 
the men ; no voice was heard, no motion 
seen." Then Rodrigo Borja, who had not 
yet voted, rose and said, " I accede to the 
Cardinal of Siena/' Then another Cardi- 
nal did likewise ; one vote only was wanted, 
and that not long. Cardinal Colonna rose, 
"I too accede to the Sienese, and make 
him Pope." The Cardinals with one im- 

Eulse threw themselves at iEneaa's feet : 
e was clad in the white papal robe, and 
asked by what name he would be called. 
" Pius," he answered at once, with Virgil- 
ian reminiscence. " Sum Pius JEneas 
fama super SBthera notus." A^ain the 
Cardinals adored him before the altar ; 
then the election was announced to the 
people from the window. The people, 
according to the old custom, ran and 
pillaged the house of the late Cardinal : 
all Pius's books and works of art were lost 
to him : but he had one source of wicked 
satisfaction — the Cardinal of Genoa suf- 
fered equally, for many in the crowd con- 
founded the cry "II Senese " with "II 
Genovese," and both were pillaged to 
make sure. 
Thus JEneas had gained the highest 

position in Europe solely by his own tal- 
ents and endeavours. By steady persever- 
ance he had climbed the ladder of prefer- 
ment; he had always shouted with the 
majority, had never spoken publicly on 
the unpopular side, had never made an 
enemy where he could avoid it, had man- 
aged that his own interest should coincide 
with that of his patron, had had a soul 
above mere vulgar consistency, had always 
been prominent, yet never too pronounced, 
except at Basle, when his blood was young, 
and then he had promptly repaired the 
error and avoided it for the future. And 
for all this self-denial he had his reward 
when the Cardinals whom he had cajoled 
kissed his feet, their hearts bursting with 
envy, and hailed him Successor of the 
Apostle. Nor had JEneas gained his po- 
sition without long and severe toil : " For 
^ye and twenty years," he said to the 
Cardinal of Pa via in language modelled 
after St. Paul, "I have wetted with tny 
sweat almost the whole Christian world ; 
tossed by tempests, bitten by frosts, 
scorched by the summer-heats, plundered 
by brigands, cast into prisons, led twenty 
times to the gates of death." In truth, 
without any need of hyperboles, few men 
have combined the labours of practical 
politics with assiduous study and constant 
literary production to so great a degree as 
did iEneas. He had always been a dili- 
gent student; at Basle, in his days of 
youthful frivolity, the boon companion who 
shared his room used to rail from his bed 
at JEneas, who pored over some classics ; 
and the habits which he formed early were 
never lost. It is astonishing to see how 
many varied interests he retained amid all 
the bustle of his scheming life; his mind 
was always active and keen, and it was 
natural to him to give a literary expression 
to every thought that occurred to him, 
and every piece of knowledge that he 
gained. Even the Basle edition of 1571, 
which contains his work in nearly eleven 
hundred folio pages, does not contain nearly 
all he wrote; m*uy additions have been 
published separately, many of his produc- 
tions are yet in manuscript, and much that 
he wrote has been entirely lost. Of his 
poems we have very few left, and they are 
insignificant;, of his carefully prepared 
speeches we have only a few, yet they fill 
three volumes 4to. Of his letters we 
have more than five hundred ; besides this, 
he wrote pamphlets on theology, philoso- 
phy, and even natural history; for there 
exists in manuscript a treatise of his 
" About the Nature of the Horse." His 
mind Was perfectly encyclopaedic ; he ' 



teems to bave had a perfect passion for 
teeing everything and writing about it; 
be bad very little choice of subject, but 
turned hU clear and polished intellect to 
anything which the varied fortunes of his 
fife from time to time brought before him : 
beoee it comes that his fame is chiefly that 
of a letter-writer and historian, for he 
fired through so many important events, 
tnd bas described them so fully, that his 
writings are a most valuable contribution 
to an understanding of the age in which 
be lived. At Basle be wrote a history of 
the Council ; in Germany he wrote a his- 
tory of Frederic III. : when sent on an 
embassy to Bohemia^ he wrote a history 
of that country : but what impresses us 
most with his keenness and justness of 
obtervation is his interest in geography, 
and the ease with which he connects geog- 
raphy and history together. He describes 
the position and the objects of interest in 
every town he has visited : he never sees 
i rain bnt he acquaints himself with its 
history, and so round this desire to keep 
bis eyes open his knowledge grew. His 
literary style is a transcript of his mental 
qualities: it is not a struggle after polished 
Latinity, like that of many of his contem- 
poraries ; it often falls into barbarism, but 
it is always easy, flowing, and clear. 
£neas, whose vanity did not overpower 
bis criticism on his own works, says of 
nbnself: "My style of writing is unpolished 

and bald, but it is frank, and without trap- 

Fings. I never write with labour, because 
do not stretch after things which are too 
high for me, and which I do not know, but 
what I have learned I write." 

There is no one whose life, regarded as 
a combination of literature and politics, 
exhibits more forcibly the simple mental 
freshness and overpowering thirst for 
knowledge whioh is the chief characteristic 
of the scholars of the age. With childlike 
eagerness and curiosity JSneas went forth 
to investigate the world ; he took it just 
as he found it, and described it without a 
tinge of pedantry. He looked back with 
only slight remorse upon his early failures 
and mistakes, for he had always made the 
best of things as he found them, and he 
had always learned wisdom from every 
fresh experience. 

The Papacy at least might claim the 
praise of adapting itself to the time. 
When Francesco Sforza ruled at Milan, 
and Cosmo de Medici was moulding Flor- 
ence ; when Alfonso of Arragon had 
established his learned court at Naples, 
and France was preparing for the rule of 
Louis XI., where could the Papacy find a 
happier mixture of culture and policy, of 
the wiliness of the serpent with the harra- 
lessneas of the dove, than in JEneas Sylvi- 
us, Cardinal of Siena? 

M. Creighton. 

Foams ahd Frutt-Geowinq. — Fruit has 
become a necessary of life — a great variety of 
fait indeed, and a great deal of it; and this 
*ifl become more and more the ease with the 
iacrewe of intelligence and thrift The great 
sboodanee of most kinds of fruit for the last 
two or three years may cause us to feel a secu- 
rity, which is not well grounded, with regard to 
tat conditions of climate necessary to the un- 
fcfliag production of fruit Only within a few 
psrt past have there been seasons when the 
friH-erop was very light, and not at all ade- 
<pate to the demand. One of the causes of this 
» the eaprioioosness of the seasons, and this 
aprieioaeneas, I believe, is becoming constantly 
pater as the country grows older. 

An inquiry, then, of much scientific interest, 
nd of great material importance, has reference 
to whit may be the cause of this increasing un- 
certainty of the fruit-crop. In the early settle- 
**nt of the country, it was easy to grow 
pawhet, even in localities where growing peaoh- 

es now seldom gladden the eye. In Ohio, be- 
tween the parallels of 40° and 41°, for exam- 
ple, peach-buds were seldom injured by winter 
or spring frosts, and the crop was abundant 
almost every year when the country was •• new." 
For the last twenty-five years peaches miss oft- 
ener than they hit, and in many parts this has 
told so fearfully against the enterprise of pro- 
duction that scarcely a peach-tree is now to be 

The clearing of the country bas made this 
change. The continued olearing of the country 
will inorease the mischief still more. The grow- 
ing of peaches and of most other fruits will be 
driven, as indeed it already has been, to special 
localities and special soils. It is now for such 
localities to look out in time and preserve as 
far as possible the favourable conditions they 
now have, and if possible to inorease them." — 
J. Btahl Pattbbsoh, in Popular Science 




raursuLTBD raox trb " dobo hla,uohtimo - or 

mm RSUTK&. 

old parents whom he most take care of aa 
long as they live ; and all they want me 
for is because I am a good housekeeper 
and know how to work ; but as for love ? 
No, nobody will come to me for that, 
and I am not so stupid as to expect it ; for 
though I am healthy and strong, I hare no 
beauty to boast of." 

Here Dtirten Holzen did herself injustice. 
She was not beautiful, strictly speaking, 
but she had a fine stately figure, and a 
fresh, pink and white complexion, with 
frank blue eyes, which revealed much in- 
telligence and determination. She was not 
in her first youth ; but at the mature age 
of one and thirty she still looked so fresh 
and tempting, that a kiss upon her red 
lips coula not be reckoned other than a 
great pleasure. She sat thinking for a 
little while, then brought down her fiat 
on her knee, with emphasis, saying : 

"Well, at any rate, I am as good as 
that old yellow thing opposite, if he is 
positively bent on getting married again, 
why not — I would take care of him, and 
work for him, and give him good advice, — 
God forgive me ! " she cried, springing 
up, "what thoughts are these for this 
blessed Christmas eve 1 Am I such a light- 
minded creature as to think of the Herr 
Conrector himself? — I never should, but 
for that old yellow woman I — God pre* 
serve me from such sinful thoughts 1 " And 
she brought out her little library, a Bible 
and a # hymn-book, and a book of Family 
Sermons, and said to herself: " The first 
verse in the Bible that my eyes Bhall rest 
upon shall be a sign for me," and as she 
opened the Bible she read : " ' He that 
gxveth her in marriage doeth well ; but he 
that riveth her not in marriage doeth 
better/ There it is," said she, sinking 
back in her chair. " No, not even for love 
will I ever marry ; I have an illustration 
of that, in my poor dear Stining." 

And now a train of gloomy thoughts 
passed through her mind, not at all suited 
to the merry Christmas tide, but suitable 
enough for a maiden who is renouncing all 
her youthful hopes ; and though she did 
not stand in the Catholic fashion before 
an altar, in a white veil, to be kissed and 
caressed by a dignified abbess and hosts of 
nuns, her mood was no less solemn, as she 
tore up, with ruthless hand, all the flowers 
from the borders in her garden, in order 
to raise henceforth only useful vegetables 
for other people, cabbages, turnips, and 
potatoes. But the devil bad a little power 
over her yet, in spite of her determined 
resolution ; he still whispered in her ear : 
" That old yellow thing 1 h 


How Durten Holsen Mat In the Herr Conreotor's back 
room, and what the had to do with the yellow 
French woman. — What foolish things the devil 
whispered in her ear, and how her slater 8tining 
came to see her. — How Stining wonld gladly have 
his Serene Highness' runner, and Durten would 
like to get hold of his Highness himself; though the 
wish appeared like contempt of royalty. — - A hymn 
book and a book of family sermons. — The Herr 
Conrector makes a Christmas present, and Durten 
Holeen sends him out, just to prove whether he or 
she is master of the house. 

It was Christmas Eve, and Durten Holzen 
was sitting alone, in the back room of 
a house in Nigen-Bramborg, watching, 
through the twilight, the melting snow, as 
it dropped from the church roof into the 

The house belonged to the Herr Con- 
rector and Cantor Aepinus, and Durten 
Holzen was his housekeeper. Her hands 
lay folded in her lap, and she said to 

" Well, we shall have peace and rest if 
it is meant for us ; but wno knows how it 
will be ? There is no harm in what I have 
thought to myself; if f should live with 
him all my life, it would be a good thing 
for both of us. He is a widower, he has 
no children, he is getting into years, and 
for the most part I have my own way. 
But that old, yellow French woman in 
the yellow pelisse, who moved into the 
rooms directly opposite, last Michaelmas, 
I have a misgiving that she will make me 
trouble yet. Thank God I he doesn't like 
her. But these menl One never knows 
what they will take it into their heads to 
do I And if— Should I go back to my 
old father ? No, there is trouble and misery 
enough in the house already; nothing 
coming in, but what Stining earns with 
her needle ; and what could I do ? There 
is nothing to keep house with. But if that 
old yellow creature in her yellow pelisse, 
should get the upper hand of him, — he is 
always scolding about her, to be sure, but 
if she should — what thenP Where could 

And she stood up, and taking up her 
lamp in her restlessness, walked up and 
down the room, and then sat down again. 

" I could never get such a place again. 

And as for getting married,' 1 — Here 

she sprang up again. " Yes, I could marry 

the shoemaker in the Fischer strasse, or the 

tinker in the Badstuber strasse, but why 

do they want me ? The shoemaker has his 

three children who are running wild for 

want of a mother ; and the tinker has his 

Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by Littall k Gay, in the Office of the Librarian 

of Congress at Washington.] 



While she sat thus the door-bell rang, 
ud when she answered it, a gentleman in 
a cloak stood in the porch, stamping the 
www from his boots, and he went directly 
into the Herr Conrector's room. 

After a little while, the bell rang again, 
and, before she conld go, a light step came 
through the passage, and the head of her 
aster Stining was thrust in at the door. 
It was a wonderfully pretty head; the 
fresh sir had painted the white cheeks rose- 
color, and the golden hair clustered in lit- 
tle soft rings about the forehead, under a 
dark brown hood, which was tied ou to 
protect it from the snow, and a pair of 
confiding blue eyes asked, with the red 
lips: u So you are at home, then ? Wait, 
I will shake off the snow, first. 1 ' And, 
directly, a slender maiden of two and 
twenty years, entered the room, and, tak- 
ing off a shabby old cloak, appeared before 
her lister in a dark house dress. 

"Come up to the fire and warm your- 
self Stining. You should hare worn your 
good warm dress, such a cold evening." 

u TWe enough for that, to-morrow, Diir- 
ten. Halsband has promised, that to-mor- 
row afternoon, after church, if there is a 
Sth made, he will give me a ride on the 
:e. Ah I one rushes like the wind when 
he draws the sledge ; he passes all the 

11 Yes," said Diirten, in rather a hard 
(one, "it is the only thing he can do." 

H Diirten," said her Bister, with a beseech- 
ing look, " don't say anythingagainst him I 
It isn't his fault that Serene Highness will 
not release him from his service. See, 
every minute that he has free he sits in 
our workshop, working for father and us ; 
and father says be has learned the "business 
10 well, that he might be taken any day 
for a regular journeyman cooper." 

a Serene Highness ought to be struck 
by lightning ii he will not let you two 

• lou may well say so," said Stining, 
sadly; "but Halsband says Serene High- 
ness is worse than ever, since ho outran 
aQ the Saxon runners at Dresden, and is 
positively determined not to let him go." 

"1 wish he were thunderstruck tool 
What possesses him to run so? Why 
can't he go moderately, like other people ?" 

"Eh, Diirten, it is his business.* 

• A fine business! Nobody will thrive 
by it, neither he nor we. And you sit 
there, working your life away, and scarcely 
ttrn enough to keep from starving." 

44 Ah, Diirten, but we have done better 
latelj. You see, you paid the rent for 
father up to Michaelmas with your wages; 

and I have earned a good deal during 
these last weeks before Christmas ; and if 
Halsband can get more time in the spring, 
you shall see, there will be something 
earned in the workshop." 

" Don't be too sure of that ! Tour gay 
bird is a bird of passage, and if he finds 
there is dancing to be had he will for- 
get the work-bench and the drawing- 

" Yes,* 1 said Stining, rather sadly, u the 
dancing 1 But then," she added, cheerfully, 
" he is such a beautiful dancer ; and it be- 
longs to his business, he may well be. 
And you may believe me, if I were willing, 
he would always take me with him, and 
he did take me once, — you remember? — 
at Whitsuntide, five years ago, — and oh, 
how the people looked at us, Diirten ! Not 
at me, I am no great dancer, no t at him, 
as he floated about, as if he had wings 
instead of legs ; and he danced with me 
the whole evening." 

•• Oh, yes," said Diirten, " I remember it 
very well ; that was the beginning of your 

" Don't say misery, Diirten ; this misery 
is my happiness. See, he is true to me, 
you know that as well as I do, and I am 
true to him ; and he has never asked me 
to do anything wrong. Is he to blame 
because Serene Highness cannot bear 
women, and will not allow his servants to 
marry ?" 

"I should like to get hold of the old 
fellow 1" exclaimed Diirten, walking up 
and down the room; but stopping sucf- 
denly, she said : " Listen ! what is that 
noise in the Herr Conrector's room ? " 

She seated herself again in order to 
hear better, and the two sisters listened in 
silence to the disturbance, and when it 
quieted down each took up a book in an 
absent way ; Stining the hymn-book, and 
any one who had seen her sitting there, 
might have said : she is such a hymn-book 
herself ; for the book had gilt edges, and 
two hearts were engraved on the cover, 
with the motto : " Thy heart and my heart 
are one," and inside were songs of joy and 
sorrow, and she sang them alternately, in 
her inmost soul. And Diirten had taken 
up the honest old sermons, and she turned 
the leaves with her firm, toil-hardened fin- 
gers, and if one had seen how her eyes 
rested on the " Meditation upon the loss of 
a lamb," and had known that she was 
looking upon her sister, at this moment, as 
this lost lamb, and had noticed the plated 
corners of the cover, and its Meissenisch 
clasps, which were not opened for every 
inquisitive idler, he might nave said : " she 



is just such an old family sermon book 

"Diirten," said Stilling, after a while, 
" I want you to come over and apend the 
evening with us; Halsband is coming, and 
I bought a fish to-day, of my cod-father 
the fisherman, for a shilling, and he gave 
me a fine one, and I will broil it for our 

"Eh, Stining," said Diirten, " how glad 
I should be to go 1 But he has company, 
and when he is at home, I cannot go out." 

44 Listen I They are pushing back their 

And, sure enough, it was not long be- 
fore the Herr Cod rector accompanied his 
visitor, into the hall, and said good-night 
to him. 

" So," said Diirten, " he has gone. Now 
if he wouid only go himself, for he must go 

The Herr Conrector, however, appeared 
to be in no hurry : for he soon came into 
Diirten's room with a pair of Manchester 
breeches in his hand. 

44 Good evening, Diirten, I — ah, good 
evening, Stining T How goes it, my daugh- 
ter ? " and he Btroked her bright, silken 
hair. " I got almost angry with that fool- 
ish fellow of a Kagebein ; but, Diirten, I 
haven't forgotten you ; I mean to give you 
something tor a Christmas present. It is 
a little thing, Diirten, for your faithful 
service; but an honest man cannot give 
more than he has. See, here are my old 
Manchester breeches ; I thought perhaps 
you could make yourself a spencer, or at 
least a new velvet hat out of them." 

"Ah, Herr Conrector t " said Diirten, 
taking the breeches, " how kind you are 1 " 

" But there is one condition, Diirten ; 
you must let me keep them till Whitsun- 

" Yes, Herr, if there is no other way." 

" No, Diirten, there is no other way. I 
have only this one pair, that I have on, and 
if anything should happen to them, what 
would become of me ? I ought to get my 
salary at Easter ; but it is always delayed 
until Whitsuntide ; and of such an article 
of clothing as breeches, a man should always 
have an extra pair, or he may be subjected 
to great inconvenience." 

" I understand, Herr Conrector." 

"Well, enjoy yourselves this evening; 
and Diirten, bring up some apples, and set 
a couple of bottles of beer, from Schultz 
the baker, since it is Christmas eve." 

" What ? " said Diirten. " And will you 
sit there alone in your room, and get the 
blues? You ought to go out and take 
your pleasure, like other people." 

44 Eh, where should I go ? Everybody 
sits at home with his family, this even Log, 
and if an old widower like me should stick 
his head in, he would be as welcome as a 
swine in a Jew's house." 

" But why not go to the keller, to your 
brother-in-law's ? All the unmarried men 
will be there, and Hofrath Altmann asked 
me this morning, if you would not come to- 

** I always get vexed with Altmann, arid 
I have had vexation enough this evening 
with that stupid Kagebein." 

"But why should you get vexed with 
Hofrath Altmann ? He got his title only 
because he has so often assisted Serene 
Highness with money ; and you f You are 
a man of worth ahd dignity, Conrector and 
Cantor ; and the weather is as pleasant for 
going out in, as we can expect at this time 
of year." 

Sehr-r-r-r-r ! came a shower of snow rat* 
tlingagainst the window. 

"Do you hear that?" said the Herr 

44 Oh," said Diirten, as she opened the 
door of the clothes press, " we often have 
such snow storms, this time of year ; " and 
she threw the Herr Conrector's cloak over 
him, and quickly buttoned it in front, and 
then turned up the collar ; and the Herr 
Conrector looked down out of the opening, 
as if he had crept into a hogshead for a 
joke, and was looking down out of the bung- 
hole, to see what the world said to his 

" So ! " said Diirten. taking up the lamp, 
" now wait in the dark a moment ; I shall 
be back directly." 

And she ran into the front room, and re- 
turned with a three-cornered hat — an 
" extinguisher," as we used to call them, — 
and a Spanish cane, and a long pipe, and a 
bag of tobacco, and a snuff-box, and a 
clean handkerchief, and a couple of hand- 
kerchiefs to tie up his neck, and proceeded 
to equip her master, as if she were a squire 
arming his knight. And the knight sub- 
mitted very peaceably, and, when his outfit 
was complete, he bade them a friendly 
good-night, and started in search of ad- 
ventures, armed with stick and pipe, in- 
stead of sword and spear. 

" So," said Diirten Holzen, " now, come, 
Stining, he has gone, and he will not be 
back before eleven o'clock ; now we can go 
to father." 

" Good gracious, Diirten 1 I never should 
have the courage to send him off like 

" One learns how to manage them, 'Stin- 
ing," said Diirten, " and if you treat him 



gently, he will obey orders, and it is good 
for him to go oat. For, 70a see, these old 
schoolmasters, when they have nothing to 
do with anybody but their school-boys, get 
to be foolish at last, and think other people 
most just mind them, like the school- 
children, and that wouldn't suit me. No, 
if I am responsible for keeping everything 
m order here I mast bare the power. He 
would get his things into a fine mess if I 
were not here to look alter him. And once 
id three months, the whole house must be 
cleaned with broom and scrubbing-brush. 
See," she said, tying on a thick hood, " he 
goes over there and disputes, with the 
Hofrath and the rest of them ; for they are 
not afraid of him, like the school-children ; 
and that accustoms him to opposition, and 
that is an advantage for me when I want 
one thing and he another. Now come, I 
will take the key with me*; but I must 
stop at the keller, and tell him not to come 
home before eleven o'clock, for I have 
locked op the boose and taken the key 
with me." 
With that they went out. 

chapter m. 

Wao the Herr Conrector and Cantor Aepiniu was. — 
How lie conducted bit school. — His honest opin- 
ion of the French, of Bonaparte and Josephine. 
-She i* yelloW too ! — Quiet satisfaction and sor- 
rowfal thoughts. — Holidays are still holidays. — 
How the Herr Conrector had the old Roman Jurist 
Cttjsdoi in his head, and the Nigen-Strelitx jurist, 
Advocate Kagebein, came into his room. — Con- 
cerning floe poetry. Gotz von Berllchlngen, Homer 
nd Losing. How the Herr Advocate Kagebein 
fcoogbt the Herr Conrector an envious man ; how 
he went to the Rathskeller, and how the Herr 
Ooaieetor followed him. 

The Herr Conrector and Cantor Aepinus 
was a Saxon. At this time he was up- 
wards of fifty years of age, and was a fine- 
looking man for his years, although his 
hair was turning gray. He was a good 
Ban. and a thorough scholar ; he was pretty 
■early the first master of the High school 
stNigen-Bramborg, who had a good knowl- 
edge of the old Greeks and Romans, and 
& scholars had a high opinion of him, in 
consequence. Johann Heinrich Voss, who 
was at school in Nigen-Bramborg in 1766, 
used to say, with much gratitude, that he 
hd learned more from the Herr Conrector 
than from any other teacher *, and when he 
was very ill at one time, the Herr Con- 
rector had visited him daily, and nursed 
unlike a lather. He was whimsical, to 
be sore, or silly, as Durten Holzen would 
hare said ; but that was the fault of his 
*i&, for she let him have too much of his 
own way, and that does not answer. If I 
aay be allowed to speak of myself, I have 

the prospect of being quite free from 
whims, in my old age ; for my dear wife 
takes a great deal of pains with my train- 
ing, and has cured me of the few that I had, 
before we were married. 

To return to the Herr Conrector ; there 
was one very remarkable thing about him, 
which I newer observed in any one else. 
Although he was of pure Saxon lineage, he 
took such a hearty liking to the rlatt- 
deutsch, that he spoke it constantly, at 
home and in company, and even in school ; 
and what seems almost impossible in a 
Saxon, he had learned it. so thoroughly, 
that only at rare intervals could any one 
detect him in a blunder. 

He gave his attention to the second 
class in the school, and besides Latin and 
Greek, taught his scholars a little Natural 
History ; and, as he was a skilful musician, 
he gave them instruction in church music, 
and sometimes allowed them to play on the 
violin, and,what afforded them great amuse- 
ment, to beat the kettle-drum. French he 
did not understand, and did not wish to 
understand ; for he had a great hatred of 
the French. There were some who said he 
had this hatred, only because he did not 
understand the language, and that he was 
ashamed to confess it; but I believe this 
opinion was a mistaken one. He could not 
bear the French character ; and his hatred 
grew more intense, as the French power in 
Germany increased, and, — at a later 
period than my story is concerned with, — 
he got into considerable trouble in conse- 

Suence. He was in the habit of calling 
lonapnrte a rascal and a robber, and he 
always spoke of Josephine as "that old 
yellow woman," 

He went one evening, into his brother- 
in-law, Kunst's wine-cellar, and there met 
a number of acquaintances, with a stranger, 
who had been brought there by the com- 
pany, for a joke. When my good Herr 
Conrector alluded to Josephine as "that 
old yellow woman," this stranger sprang 
up and attacked him : 

" Monsieur, I am a Frenchman ; you have 
insulted mon Imperatrice. I will have you 
put in prison I " 

" Oh, oh 1 Hold 1 " cried the Conrector ; 
and, grasping his hat and cane, he beat a 
retreat out of the door. There was great 
merriment over his abrupt departure ; but 
scarcely was he outside, when he repented, 
and was angry with himself for retreating, 
and thrusting his head in at the door, he 
cried out : 

" And she is yellow, too t " 

So he could not bear the French, and 
had as great a dislike to a brunette com- 



plexion, as Durten herself had. But in 
other respects, — as I have said already, — 
he was a good man, and although some 
people reckoned it as a fault, that he was 
sharp at a bargain, and extremely economi- 
cal in his expenses, there was reason enough 
why he should be, for his income was small, 
he had no friends who could or would as- 
sist him, and old age stared him in the face. 
Avaricious, however, he was not, except of 
paper; of that he was very sparing, and 
wrote on the smallest fragments ; but one 
often meets with that description of avarice. 
I have a good friend, who will give you two 
thalers very cheerfully, if you ask it for 
any one ; but he makes a pitiful face, if one 
uses two matches. 

On the morning of the day, which I have 
been telling about, he walked up and down 
his room, dressed in a short jacket, which 
his neighbour the tailor had made for him 
out of an old coat, and with a long pipe in 
his mouth. He could not afford the ex- 
panse of a dressing-gown. "I haven't 
smoked a pipe at this time in the morning, 
since the fair, last fall," said he to himself. 
" It is very pleasant to get out of the old 
harness once in a while. Holidays are still 
holidays ; a man can draw a lone breath. 
Now, I will examine my electrical appara- 
tus ; " and he pulled out a shallow tin box, 
filled with rosin, and a fox's brush, and 
sundry bottles and halves of bottles ; for 
the apparatus was of his own manufacture, 
and gotten nip as cheaply as possible. " It 
is not so nice as the apothecary's machine," 
he observed, " but it will work ; one can 
get some idea from it." 

He worked over this until noon ; then he 
made himself tidy for the day, and ap- 
peared in a russet brown coat, with great 
gold-embroidered buttons, and wide cuffs 
on the sleeves, black Manchester velvet 
breeches, snow-white stockings, and bright- 
ly polished shoes, with silver buckles. 
Then he called Durten Holzen to arrange 
his hair in a bag, and afterwards he sat 
down with her to dinner. 

After dinner, he had a little fire made in 
his stove ; then went to the window, opened 
it, and examined his thermometer, a valued 
gift from the apothecary ; for they two were 
the only ones in Nigen-Bramborg who pos- 
sessed such a weather prophet. 

Just as he opened his window, a window 
was raised in the second story of the 
house opposite, and his neighbour in the 
yellow pelisse made him a bow, and uttered 
a friendly : 

" Bon jour, Monsieur." 

" Good day I " was his reply. " I have 
% told you once before, that if you wish 

totalk with me, you must speak Ger- 

" I wish you a merry Christmas 1 " said 
the lady, in German. 

"The same to yourself!" And with a 
faint attempt at a polite bow, he closed the 

" The cuckoo knows," said he, " I said a 
couple of words to her one day, when I met 
her on the wall, and now she attacks me, 
wherever she sees me. Well, let her 

He seated himself in his leather-covered 
arm-chair, — which his father-in-law, who 
died three months ago, had given him 
several years before, for a Christmas pres- 
ent, — and smoked his pipe. The room 
was pleasantly warm, the fire crackled in 
the stove, the chair was comfortable : out 
of doors, the wind and the driving snow ; 
in doors, everything quiet. u Eight de- 
crees by the thermometer outside," said 
he, leaning back in his chair, " well for him 
who has a warm room to stay in. But how 
lonely, how lonely 1 Durten Holzen is a 
good creature, but it was different with 
Lotting. She was economical, too; but 
she would not have let to-day pass without 
some notice, she would at least have made 
pepper-nuts. Durten says : ' You don't 
eat them, and it isn't worth while baking 
them for me ; besides, we can't spare toe 
money.' She is right; but Lotting was 
economical, too, and yet she would have 
baked pepper-nuts." Thoughts of the past 
returned to him, and he sighed gently, but 
could not call back what had vanished for- 
ever. His was no bitter heart-sorrow ; he 
felt rather like a man alone on a desert 
island in the wide ocean, whose eyes vainly 
search the blue distance for a white sail, 
bearing to him human hope, and the waves 
dash mournfully against the shore, the 
monotonous waves of daily life. He was 
weary of their sighing, and his eyes closed, 
and then the pipe dropped from his mouth, 
and he was asleep. Then the clock struck 
two, and he roused himself: " Eh, there's 
no help for it. Oh, to be sure ! it is vaca- 
tion," — and he went to sleep again. 

When he awoke for the second time, 
after a comfortable nap, his thoughts went 
on to the future. He sat down by the 
window, and watched the storm. " It does 
well enough now," he said. "I am still 
healthy and strong, and can continue my 
teaching for some time longer ; but when 
old age comes, and they pension me off on 
bread and butter, what shall I live on? 
My profession is not a good one to lay up 
money in. I might marry again ; but u 
should be a woman with a few groschens 



of her own, and who would be disposed to 
be kind to me in my old age. And where 
could I find such an one ? The old jurist 
Cojacius relates that he was thrice mar- 
ried; the first time propter opus,* the sec- 
ond time propter opes,f and the third time 
propter opem ; % I most marry propter opes 
sad propter opem at the same time. A 
difficult matter, if one knows women ; the 
opes would afford no opem, and the opem 
bare no opes." Here, he looked up, and 
in the twilight saw his neighbor standing 
st ber window. '* There she is again I Peo- 
ple say yon hare opes ; but you don't look 
to me as if you would be worth much for 

As it grew darker, Dtirten brought in a 
light, mended the fire, and brought out a 
pair of warm felt shoes. " Herr Conrector," 
pat on your warm shoes, so as not to take 
cold," and went out again. 

" Dtirten would answer for opem/' said 
the Herr Conrector, M but where would the 
opes come from, in that case ? " 

Then he heard some one stamping off 
the snow, and the Herr Advocate Kagebein 
entered the room. 

* Honoured friend and benefactor, I 
could not resist." 

* What ? " 

« Coming to visit you ; I felt the strongest 
impulse to see you again." 

* So ? Why, when did you get home ? " 

* Last evening.** 

"Well, if the impulse was so strong, I 
wonder you did not come last evening/* 
"Business, my friend, indispensable 

"What? Have you got a case, for the 
first time in your life ? " 

* Preserve us 1 Far more important was 
the business which wailed me on the wings 
of the zephyrs, while yet the purple garment 
of Aurora overspread the Eastern sky 
from New-Streliti to Brandenburg." 

"Fine old sepbyrs out of doors to-day 1 " 
aid the Herr Conrector irreverently, but 
Kagebein did not allow himself to be dis- 

" 1 am going to have a collection of my 
finest poems printed, and his Serene High- 
sesi has been graciously pleased to accept 
my humble dedication, and here they are 1 " 
sad he deposited a quantity of manuscript 

on the table. 

"His Highness? Poems? He must have 
dene it out of curiosity, for I do not think 
he ever read a poem in his life." 

* I read him some of mine, and he was 
pleased with them ; he has a great 

lt/« t Vor riches, t For 

deal of taste and appreciation for really 
fine, lofty poetry; and — between us — 
from what Rand, his Herr Kamtnerdiener 
said to me, I have a confident expectation 
of receiving the title of Court Poet." 

" I congratulate you on the lofty title." 

M But the poems are really very fine I 
They are in the highest style ; I have, so to 
speak, melted Gellert and Rammler and 
Gleim into one. Just listen t " 

" Pray sit down, first." 

The Herr Advocate did so, and began to 
look over his papers. 

" I will not choose out any ; I will take 
them just as they come. Here is one which 
I wrote like Gellert; it is an Idyllum." 

"That is not the word; it should 
be Idy Ilium ; it comes from the Greek 

"Oh, that is a little matter; the great 
thing is to be able to create ; listen : 

44 brviTAnov to tei Miswramain 


A Goon FaianD. 

Like the Shepherd when the evening oomes, 

All his cattle safely in their homes. 

And with thoughtful and with gentle ears 

How the good old sheep and lambs may fare* 

Hay and straw abundantly procured, 

And the sheep stall carefully secured, — 

Like the shepherd, by the fireside sitting, 

With his Trina near him at her knitting, 

While his wearied limbs and cold he warms, 

And is happy in his Trina's arms, 

Leave me, speaks he, in this peaceful rest — " 

"Preserve usl" cried the Herr Con- 
rector, interrupting, "what a line 1 'Leave 
me, speaks he, ' — » Where did you ever see 
the like of that ? " 

"It is quite original," said Kagebein, 
drawing himself up, complacently, "but 
hear the rest of it : 

44 And with joy is fitted his Trina's breast 
Like the shepherd, happy will we be. 
When, my friend, thy face beloved I see, 
Full of Joy shall be the fleeting hours. 
And the nymphs shall strew the path with 

Come, dear friend, and leave the old books lying. 
All the Pandects and the oodicem, 
Know that with the hours of youth are flying 
Also youthful joys, and come ad locum quern." 

44 Rather a tough rhyme, but very pret- 
ty," said the Conrector; and Kagebein 
went on : 

49 Waiting thee with open arms they stand, 
Mid the sounding strings and trumpets' music 

Dorimene and Synoerene and all the g r a c e s. 
Fairer than in olden times the (sir in Greece and* 

other famous places.' 




** Now hold on I " cried the Conrector, 
pushing back the papers. M It would take 
a man a week, at least, to comprehend that. 
And yon think that is in the style of 
Geilert ? " 

" Yes/ 1 replied Kagebein, innocently ; 
"and here I have a piece which is more 
like Gleim. Friendship, you know ; I com- 
posed it for my friend Morn, upon the birth 
of his son : 

11 Dear friend, I muoh regret to say, 
I'm in the doctor's care to-day, 
And therefore cannot go to meet thee; 
May Zephyros and Phoebus greet thee! 


Yet at half past eight, may be, 
We shall one another see, 
Let not anxious care attend, 
I am still thy faithful friend. 

Greetings to thy Lotta dear, 
And the little God of slumber, 
Sweetest blessings without number 
Greet his welcome entrance here. 

Pay the tows that thou didst make, 
Praying often for his sake, 
Full of love and joy to-day, 
Fall upon thy knees and pray! " 

Here the Conrector sprang np : 

" You must excuse me, I cannot stand 
that, I am quite dizzy ; I must walk np and 
down a little." 

Kggebein drew himself up, proudly : 

"Your feelings are overcome by 
peetry ? " 

"Yes, it has quite overpowered 
4 Sounding strings ' — by that yon mean 
fiddles, I suppose ? " 

" Yes, that is poetical." 

" And I suppose ' God of slumber ' is 
poetical for a new-born child ? " 

" Yes, these poetical expressions are, as 
many have told me, my peculiar forte. 
Here I have a great epic poem, which is 
entitled : ' The Beauty of the Bakery ; or, 
the Leap through the Blackthorn ; ' I shall 
not print it at present, because — " 

" That is right, that is the most sensible 
thing you can do — nonum prematur in an- 
num, — don't print it yet awhile; these 
poems are enough for people to swal- 
low. Now, tell me, how long have you 
written poetry ? " 

M Oh, well ! Fifteen or twenty years." 

" Then let it go, for the future ; you have 
dene your duty, in that respect" 

44 Eh, my friend, so you say ; but when 
the spirit moves me, for my nature is a 
poetical one — " 

M A confounded nature and a good-for- 
nothing spirit ! Tell me, did you ever read 
a book called 'Got* von Berliohingen ? • 



The Hofrath Altmann lent it to me ; I can* 
not afford to buy such things myself." 

Kagebein shrugged his shoulders, and 
shook his head, saying : 

" Yes, but it is rough and unpolished ; 
there is very little fine poetry in it." 

" All the better ! I should hope not," 
cried the Conrector, warmly. "There ia 
truth and nature. Look at Homer ; where 
is the fine poetry? People stammer and 
blunder over Homer at school, and never 
understand half of bis beauty and natural- 
ness and truth. I had one scholar, only a 
farmer's boy when he came to me, — Johann 
Hcinrich Voss his name was, — who had 
some sense of it." 

" Yes, my friend ; but Homer has noth- 
ing fine; he lived in such a barbarous 

" Eh, and we in a very refined one ? I 
suppose you think, because you call the 
women in your poems by all sorts of silly 
names, that therefore you are a fine writer ; 
what we call Mariken and Fika and Diir- 
ten, you call Dorimene and Syncerene and 
Fatima, and what not ridiculous names ; I 
can only tell you, I would not take all your 
Iphigenias and Philomelas and Dorimenes, 
in, exchange for my honest old Durten Hoi- 
zen. That comes from the cursed French, 
which is destroying our German character 
and German language. See, there is a fel- 
low," and he pointed to a picture of 
Leasing, which hung on the wall* — "I 
studied with him at Leipsic, he was a crony 
of mine, — he understood it; and if we 
would follow him, we should be on the 
right track. And here,'* — taking down 
an old book from the shelf, " is a country- 
man of yours, who wrote good old-fash- 
ioned poetry, listen : I will translate it 
from his old dialect, into the present, and 
read only the close of it, for the first part 
is a little too strong for this delicate, re- 
fined age : 

" So'ne hocher luchtete Red', de is an np go 

kamen, \ 

Bringet den nigen Poeten einen ewigen N*- 

Dat is un laoherlich, schriwen dat Jederm&nn, 
Ja ok ein SohausteV — seggt'e — oder*n oil 

Weib vernamen Kaon, 
Ein mot sine Fedder hooh awer de Luft up. 

Un mit poetisohen styl dorch de Wulken drtn- 

Dat is nu de Manir,— seggt'e — u* a w t a. 

a w seggt'e."* 

• " 8aeh a highly-enlightened speech, at Is now the 
Will give enduring fluae to the poets of the 



" Bat, my dear friend, that is our com- 
mon Platt-deutsch." 

* Well, and why not ? " 

"Tea, I know that you — and it is much 
deplored by your friend?, — are so much 
attached to the common Platt-deutsch lan- 
guage, that yon give it the preference over 
the High German. " 

m So ? Well, you may tell my friends not 
to distress themselves on my account; I 
bare my reasons for it, tell them. Do you 
think i^ coming here as I did, a Saxon, I 
had learned no Platt-deutsch, my scholars 
would not have indulged in all manner of 
foolish jokes against me, in that language V 
And I will acknowledge, in addition, that I 
like the Platt-deutsch much better than the 
High German that you write ; it is at least 
not yet corrupted aud spoiled by the 

" It is a common dialect," said Kagebein, 
who began to get excited, — the old Con- 
rector had been so, all along, — " You can- 
not express in it a single fine, poetic 
though t-" 

u I am glad of it," cried the Conrector, 
striking the table, " it is too honest You 
say that I am fond of the Platt-deutsch dia- 
lect, and then you say of my beloved ob- 
ject, that it is common ? — what ? — Herr, 
look to your words 1 — what would you 
say, if I were to call your Chloes, and Doru 

It Is really laughable, any one may command It, 

Era the shoemaker*, ana the old women under* 
stand tt. 

One has only to wave his pen in the air, for in- 

And soar on the cloud* of poetic style over all 
creation, — • 

Ibis ia now the fashion— says he, etc." 

menes, and the rest of the lot, common 
women ? " 

" We don't seem to agree, this evening," 
said Kagebein, collecting his papers, and 
getting ready to go. 

When the old Conrector observed this, 
a feeling came over him that he had been 
rather rude to his visitor, and as a kind- 
hearted man, he endeavoured to make 
amends, but as it proved, he made matters 
worse than ever. He went up to his guest 
very frankly, and gave him his hand : 

"I am older than you, Kagebein, and 
can give you a word of advice ; don't pub- 
lish the confounded poems 1 " 

The poet started back, looked sharply at 
the Conrector, and thought he was pale 
with envy ; so he smiled in a superior way, 
and said as he went out of the door : 

"Your advice is certainly well meant, 
and many people may not appreciate my 
poems; but his Highness, our gracious 
reigning Sovereign, has accepted the dedi- 
cation, and so they must be published. 
Good evening." 

The Conrector accompanied him to the 
door and said : 

" Good evening ! I wish you much happi- 
ness from them ; but, excuse me for saying 
so, you are a great goose 1 " 

Kagebein went off, replying: 

u We shall see, my friend, we shall see ! 
Look at them in print, first ; they will seem 
quite a different thing." 

He went off towards the wine-cellar, and 
the Conrector growled after him : 

" Have I wasted my Christmas evening 
on that stupid fellow 1 " 

And, as we have seen, a little while after, 
he followed Kagebein to the wine-cellar. 

A aeaiES of " penny readings " have lately 
been introduced at St. Petersburg by the direc- 
tor of police, General Trepoflf, and they are said 
to be very numerously attended by the lower 
classes of the city. The Government is also en- 
deavoariog to promote the spread of education 
among the people by increasing the number of 
schools, and its efforts are being worthily sec- 
onded by the subscriptions of private benefac- 
tors. A Captain Lobnnoff, who died the other 
day at Samara, left the whole of his property of 
22,000 roubles to the Government to be expend- 
ed in educational objects; and the landowners of 
the semaU district of Novc-Usensk, in the Gov- 
ernment of Archangel, have subscribed 27,000 
roubles among them for the establishment of 
school* in the district. Notwithstanding all this, 

however, the number of schools in the empire is 
still far from sufficient for the wants of the pop- 
ulation. The number of children fit to go to 
school is estimated at about eight millions, so 
that, taking an average of fifty children for each 
school, there should be about 160,000 schools, 
while there are not more than 40,000. The 
consequence is that the proportion of persons 
unable to read and write in Russia is greater 
than in almost any other European country. 
The good intentions of the Ministry, too, are in 
many instances foiled by the stupidity or corrup- 
tion of the officials, and in Poland and the Bal- 
tic provinces the Government ia too busy in 
keeping down antagonistic national elements to 
pay much attention to education. 

Pall Halt Gasette. 




From The Contemporary Review* 


At a time when the subject of liturgical 
revision is occupying man/ minds in Eng- 
land, and when already the Irish branch 
of the Church has taken the Prayer-Book 
in hand, and is even now actively engaged 
on the work of alteration, it may, we trust, 
be found useful to consider the success 
that has attended the only revision of the 
. Prayer-Book that has been effected since 
the Caroline settlement of 1662, and gen- 
erally enforced by the authority of any 
church of the Anglican communion. The 
efforts of the Royal Commissioners of 
1689 were practically fruitless. The task 
imposed on them was one that at any time 
would have been attended with enormous 
difficulties : and at the particular time 
when it was undertaken party spirit ran 
so high that there could have been among 
thoughtful men little serious expectation of 
its successful achievement. The result of 
their labours was a service-book from 
which enough of ancient usago and phrase- 
ology was surrendered to discontent and 
alarm the great majority of Churchmen 
without its becoming in the smallest meas- 
ure really adapted to propitiate the deep- 
rooted dislike of the general mass of the 
Nonconformists. While from a literary 
point of view the work of the Commission- 
ers will always remain a curiosity, as dis- 
C laying in a marvellous, sad way, the la- 
orious and painstaking industry which 
a vitiated taste can employ in spoiling the* 
beauties which it cannot appreciate. Hap- 
pily for the Church the unruly temper of 
the Lower House of Convocation made it 
at once plain that no alteration * of the 

♦ The following will give tome notion of the state 
of excited feeling prevalent among the clergy — 
'•Great canvassing* were every wherein the elections 
of Convocation-men ; a thing not known in former 
times; so that it was soon very visible, that we were 
not in a temper cool or calm enough, to encourage 
the further prosecuting such a design. When the 
Convocation was opened, the king sent them a mes- 
sage by the Earl of Nottingham, assuring them of 
bis constant tkvour and protection, and desiring 
them to consider such things as by his order should 
be laid before them, with due care and an impartial 
■eal for the peace of the Church. But the Lower 
House of ConvooaUon expressed a resolution not to 
enter into any debates with relation to alterations: 
to that they wouid take no notice of the second part 
of the King's mes age: and it was, not without dif- 
leulty, carried to make a decent address to the 
King, thanking him for his promise of protection. 
But, because, in the draught which the Bishops sent 
them, they acknowledged the protection that the 
Protestant Religion in general, and the Church of 
England in particular, bad received from him, the 
Lower House thought that this Imported their own- 
ing some common union with the foreign Protest- 
ants : to they would not agree to it."— Burnet, His- 
tory o/ Hi* Oum Tim*, Book V., anno ltt». 

existing Prayer-Book would then be tol- 
erated, and since then no further experi- 
ment in liturgical change* has been tried, 
in England, under authority of Church or 
State. Of course the varieties of " use " 
which in the last century sprang up among 
the Non-jurors and the Scottish Episcopa- 
lians make no exception to this statement, 
as not in general pretending to authority, 
and being in the. main determined by the 
personal inclinations of individual Bishops. 
It was left thus to the American Church 
to J>e the first Church to attempt a revis- 
ion of our service-books which should be 
authoritatively binding within the whole 
circle of her jurisdiction. 

The American* Prayer-Book presents a 
very meagre and unattractive field of study 
to the mere liturgiologist ; but it is not 
without considerable interest for any one 
whose mind is occupied with the practical 
problems of revision. And just at the 
present time is this more especially true, 
because the American Be vision has been 
frequently pointed to by a busy innovating 
section in the IrUh Church as a signal fact 
that should not fail to allay the grave ap- 
prehensions, with which the whole subject 
of liturgical change has been regarded by 
the more conservative party* while there 
are some found who even look to the 
American Prayer-Book aa affording weighty 
precedent for alterations that they de- 

As I shall in the course of this article 
have need to use some hard words of cen- 
sure, here at the outset I would say that 
to judge fairly of the praise and blame 
that attach to the American Revisers of 
1789 we must never fail to bear in mind 
that in their day on both sides of the At- 
lantic the prevailing ideal of Divine Wor- 
ship had fallen low. Their work was done 
at the ebb ; and it was not till nearly half 
a century later that the flow of the tide of 
religious sentiment on this matter began 
to grow full and strong. Indeed the very 
conception of worship — worship as distin- 
guished in thought from prayer and edifi- 
cation — was hazy, and ill-defined, among 
English Churchmen, for many years' after 
the date of the American Revision. And 
yet there is no truths more certain than 
this, that the firm and continuous grasp 
of the conception of worship — as the 
homage of man before the throne of 
God — is the first essential to any 
worthy dealing with the Divine services. 
Once surrender the pre-eminence of 
the idea of adoration in the Church's 
worship of God — once allow edifying rites, 
doctrinal instructions, supplications and 


interoesaions to compete with it, and we 
destroy that true subordination of parte, 
which constitutes the perfection of the 

K*t A*)**} XarpeU of human creatures. 
t these troths were bat dimly appre- 
hended eighty years ago. Again, we must 
not fail to remember that in the latter half 
of the last century scholarly interest in 
litorgiology generally, and even in the 
history of our own Prayer-Book, had 
dwindled low in the English Church. The 
eminent ritualists who adorned the Church 
in the preceding century had left no suc- 
cessors, and the age of the revival of ec- 
desiological art and science had not yet 
arrived. Indeed when we fairly consider 
the circumstances of the American Chnrch 
— the stimulant to democratic feeling 
which had been sapptied by the successful 
issue of the war, ana the establishment of 
the republican form of government, — the 
influences, direct and indirect, of the 
many surrounding Protestant sects, far ex- 
ceeding the Church in numerical strength,* 
—the absence of the conservative epis- 
copal traditions that have so often at home 
proved a valuable check upon hasty innova- 
tion, — and the smallness of the Upper 
House at the General Convention of 1789,f 
rendering it more difficult to resist pressure 
from below — when we consider these 
things we shall see good reason to wonder 
that the changes were not far more violent 
and sweeping than they are. On the 
whole the characteristic features of the 
American Revision belong rather to time 
than to place ; and results in a great meas- 
ure similar would probably have marked a 
revision conducted at the same period in 
the old world.J 

An outline of the history of the Ameri- 
can Revision may be given in few words. 

Immediately upon the acknowledgment 
hy Great Britain of the political independ- 
ence of the United States, it became plain 
to American Churchmen that the time had 
arrived would be absolutely 
to settle their ecclesiastical or- 


* Is some instances these influence* acted bene- 
fldailT by way of reaction — as in the Northern 
State*, where the sorroondlng Puritanism drove the I 
people and clergy to value more highly the dUtinct- i 
ire teaching and ritual of the Chnrch. Bishop 8?a- 
bury— the first eon«ecrated of the American bish- 
ops— vhoM sympathies with the Scottish Episco- 
pal Church have left their permanent impress on the 
Communion Office, was head of the Church in Puri- 
tan Connecticut, and was himself the son of a New 
England l*n*bytertan. 

t The Upper House consisted actually of only two 
bishops. Seatrary ftod White; Bishop Provoost had 
withdrawn him.«elf from the Convention. 

I In M>me measure the treatment of the Comutu- 
Offlee is exceptional to the general spirit of the 
Bow it eame about will be seen hereafter. 

ganiiation upon an independent basis* 
Hitherto all efforts to obtain the establish- 
ment of bishoprics in the North American 
Colonies had: failed, owinj chiefly to 
motives of state policy affecting the minis- 
tries at home ; — and the whole vast tract 
of British America was entrusted to the 
episcopal supervision of the Bishop of Lon- 
don.*. The first move was made by the 
clergy of Connecticut, who, assembling to- 
gether in a voluntary Convention, as had 
been their practice in the colonial times, 
elected Dr. Samuel Seabury as their bishop. 
It is reported to have been said by Benja- 
min Franklin, with the smug self-satisfac- 
tion which characterises so many of his 
utterances, that " men would one day learn 
not to be dependent upon other countries, 
but would make their own bishops for 
themselves.*' f And though there appears 
to have been some inclination on the part 
of Washington's friend, William. White 
(afterwards Bishop of Pennsylvania^, to 
lend an ear to some such counsels, Seabury 
and his clergy were far from thinking so 
tightly of that regular episcopal succession 
which maintains visibly before the eyes of 
men the historical continuity of the 
Church's life. It is unnecessary here to 
explain the difficulties that prevented Sea- 
bury receiving consecration from the En- 
glish episcopate. It will be sufficient to 
say that they arose from no indisposition 
on the part of the bishops to comply with 
his wishes, but only from certain technical 
legal difficulties arising from the connection 
of Church and State. It is owing, however, 
to this apparently accidental circumstance 
that the American Communion Office dif- 
fers in such important particulars from that 
of the English Church. For Seabury in 
his difficulties was advised to apply for 
consecration to the Bishops of the Scottish 
Episcopal Church, and thus began an in- 
tercourse during which he entered into an 
engagement to assist in introducing into 
his own country the Scottish Communion 
Office. % He was consecrated at Aberdeen 
on the- 14th of November, 1781, one year 
after the independence of the United States 
had been formally recognized by Great 
Britain. In the month of September a 
meeting of fifteen clergymen and eleven 

• When Sherlock was Bishop of London he wrote, 
" I think myself In a very bad situation: bishop of 
a va*t country, without power or influence, or any 
means of promoting true religion, sequestered from 
the people over whom I have care, and most never 
hope to see." 

t Caswall, The American Church and American 
Union, p. 188. 

X This engagement appears to hare been entered 
into after his eonseoration. See Caswell's The 
American Church, fce., p. 135. 



laymen, from six of the states, was held in 
New York with a view to agreeing on 
some general principles of ecclesiastical 
union between the Episcopal churches of 
the various states. The constitution of a 
convention to assemble in the following 
year was here determined, and a resolution 
passed that the American Church " shall 
adhere to the liturgy of the said Church 
(t.c, the Church of England) as far as shall 
be consistent with the American revolution, 
and the constitution of the respective states" 
Even at the first General Convention, held 
at Philadelphia in September, 1785, as 
Bishop White has left on record,* " few, 
or rather, it is believed, none," had any 
thought of doing more than accommodating 
the Prayer-Book to the altered circum- 
stances of the country. M Every one, so 
far as is here known, wished for alterations 
in the different offices. But it was thought 
at New York in the preceding year that 
such an enterprise could not be undertaken 
until the Church should be consolidated 
and organized. Perhaps it would have 
been better if the same opinion had been 
continued and acted on." However, when 
ths'subject of liturgical revision was once 
opened, men could not resist the tempta- 
tion of ventilating their various notions. 
The first controversy was raised by Mr. 
Page, afterwards Governor of Virginia, 
proposing that one short invocation should 
be substituted for the four with which the 
Litany opens. The proposal was put and 
lost without a division. Then followed 
discussions on the doctrines of justification, 
original sin, predestination, the desoent 
into Hell, the Athanasian and Nicene 
Creeds. The changes which were thought 
desirable, were sketched out, and three 
clergymen — Dr. White being ode — were 
directed to embody the changes, and were 
given liberty to make verbal alterations 
in the English Book of Common Prayer. 
The result of their hasty labours was 
speedily put into print, and is known as 
the "Proposed Book." This book wa3 
next t nbmitted, in the spring of 1786, to 
the Conventions of the several states, 
which, with the exception of the Conven- 
tions of New Jersey and New York, seem 
to have accepted the book either altogether 
or with some slight modfications. 

The General Convention of the previous 
year had requested the Archbishops and 
Bishops of England to consecrate to the 
episcopate the persons who might be elect- 
ed in the several states, but had given no 

* Memoirs of the American Church, p. 102 (2nd 

intimation of the proposed changes in the 
Prayer-Book. The knowledge of some of 
the proposed changes did not, however, 
fail to reach the English prelates by irregu- 
lar and informal channels ; and in their re- 
ply to the Convention they stated that, 
however desirous to comply with its re- 
quest, they must delay till they had more 
exact information of the alterations in- 
tended. "While we are anxious," they 
wrote, "to give every proof, not only of 
our brotherly affection, but of our facility 
in forwarding your wishes, we cannot but 
be extremely cautious lest we should be 
the instruments of establishing an ecclesias- 
tical system, which will be called a branch 
of the Church of England, but afterwards 
may possibly appear to have departed from 
it. essentially either in doctrine or discip- 
line/' Shortly after this letter had been 
written the two Archbishops received the 
44 Proposed Prayer- Book." They examined 
it, and wrote again to the Convention ex- 
pressing their grief, not only at various 
verbal changes that seemed quite uncalled 
for, but chiefly at the mutilation of the 
Apostles' Creed by the omission of " He 
descended into hell," and at the entire re- 
moval of the other two ancient symbols 
accepted by our Church.* Before this 
letter reached America the Convention had 
replied thus to the former enquiries of the 
Bishops, " We have made no alterations or 
omissions but such as our civil constitutions 
required, and such as were calculated to re- 
move objections^ It is well known that 
many great and pious men of the Church 

• Bishop White (Memoir* of the American Church, 
p. Ill) claims to be possessed of information that 
woula show that the Bishop of Bath and Wells 
(Dr. Moss) swayed the other Knglish prelates la 
insisting on the objection to the remoral of the 
article of the descent into hell, which otherwise 
would not have been urged. Such hearsay state- 
ments should obviously be taken with muoh caution. 
It is likely enough that the objection of the Bishop 
of Bath and Wells wa* " rested by him on the con- 
tradiction of an ancient heresy." The Arohbishop 
of Dublin in his last charge (September, 1871). 
speaking of the American revision, remarks. *'It is 
easy enough to lower the standards of a Church : 
but to raise them again, to recover that which has 
been too lightly let go, this is nearly impossible, or 
quite. Thus, it was a time when the Church real- 
ised but slightly the immense significance of our 
Lord's desoent into Hades— a truth which, I be* 
lleve. many of the discussions likely ere long to oc- 
cupy the Church will bring into ever greater prom- 
inence; and so the words in the Apostles' Creed — 
' Went down into hell ' . , . were virtually given up 
... to the shallow objections of an uuinstruoted 
and Ignorant age; the witness therein contained 
against the Apollinarlan heresy effaced, and all the 
blessed hopes for them who in the days of their 
0>gh have not had the opportunity of knowing; 
Christ as the Saviour, which in these words are 
wrapped up. were obscured, and so far as the wit- 
ness of the Church extendi, were withdrawn " (n„ 
t A wide field is thrown open here. 



of England bare long wished for a revision 
of the Liturgy, which it was deemed im- 
prudent to hazard, le3t it might become a 
precedent for repeated and improper altera- 
tions. Hiis is with us the proper season 
for such a revision. We are now settling 
and ordering the affairs of oar Church, ana 
if wisely done we shall have reason to 
promise ourselves all the advantages that 
can result from stability and union." The 
effect, however, of the Archbishops' definite 
objections to the " Proposed Prayer-book " 
was that the Nicene Creed was restored to 
the Prayer-book, and allowed to be used, 
as an alternative, instead of the Apostles' 
Creed, both in the Communion and daily 
offices. The clause " He descended into 
hell * was also restored, though afterwards 
the following rubric was prefixed — " any 
Churches may omit the words, He descended 
into hell, or may, instead of them, use the 
words, He went into the place of. departed 
spirits, which are considered as words of the 
same meaning in the Creed."* No change, 
however, was made in the resolution of the 
Convention to discontinue the use of the 
Athanasian Creed in Divine Service, 
though fully acknowledging the dogmatic 
teaching of the creed on the Trinity and 
the Incarnation.f After these concessions 
on the part of the American Church, the 
English prelates withdrew all opposition, 
and on the 4th of Febuary in the following 
year (1787) the bishops-elect of Pennsyl- 
vania and of New York, Dr. White and Dr. 
Provoost, were solemnly consecrated in 
the chapel of Lambeth Palace. 

The General Convention at its next 
meeting, more than two years afterwards, 
resumed their work upon the alterations 
in the liturgy ; and but for the firmness 
and wisdom shown by the two bishops, 
Sesbury and White, it is impossible to tell 
the extent to which ruin would have been 
wrought upon the English Prayer-Book. 
For the Lower House undertook the mon- 
strous course of framing a new liturgy, 
and nominated committees to prepare the 
various services. The bishops, however, 
were determined to hold the English 
Prayer-Book as the basts of their work, 
sod to avoid, as far as they could, all un- 
necessary changes. And though White's 
own judgment, more especially in matters 
of liturgical propriety and taste, must be 

• At flrft the clause was placed In brackets, bat 
these were afterwards removed as suggesting the 
kfcaof vpuriousness. 

t The formularies of the Church go beyond the 
■ere removal of the Athanasian Creed from litur- 
gical me. Mention of " Athanasius's Creed " Is re- 
noved from Article VIII., and the heading altered 
tp •-Of the Creeds." 

reckoned far from correct, yet, on the 
whole, it is to him and Seabury is due the 
fact that in all their main features the 
liturgies of the United States and of the 
Mother-Church are still alike. Something 
was yielded on both sides, and their hered- 
itary English instincts manifested them- 
selves in the acceptance of a compromise. 
Morning and Evening Prayer were altered 
in a direction quite opposite to that 
towards which a regard for the ancient 
services of the Church would tend ; while 
the Communion Service, around which one 
would have supposed that the most jealous 
circumspection would have been exercised, 
accepted from the Scotch Liturgy the 
oblation and the invocation of the Holy 
Ghost upon the elements, — a feature de- 
rived from primitive antiquity. It is very 
extraordinary that "no remark of any 
sort " was made in the Lower House on 
their introduction. We have this on the 
testimony of Bishop White ; and the only 
explanation of this silence which I can 
suggest is that Bishop Seabury's* feeling 
on the subject had been so strongly ex- 
pressed that it was thought better not to 
risk the shipwreck of the entire revision 
by opposition on a matter that had no very 
obvious theological bearing to the minds 
of the great majority of the members of 
the Convention. 

We shall now proceed, without attempt- 
ing a very minute collation, to classify and 
examine more in detail all the important 
changes that were introduced into the 
American Prayer-Book in 1789. Since 
then no substantial alteration has been 

I. There is no need to consider at any 
length changes necessitated, or suggested, 
by the changed political condition of the 
country — e, g., the prayer for the King 
being changed into one for the President, 
and that for the High Court of Parliament 
into one for the Congress. The desiderata 
for ourselves are a consolidation of the 
several prayers for the Queen, the Royal 
Family, ana (in Ireland) the Lord Lieu- 
tenant, and a permission of certain omis- 
sions when the Morning Prayer, the Lit- 
any, and the Communion Service are 
M accumulated." If the " prayer for the . 
Queen's majesty " be touched at all by the 
Irish revisers we would remind them of 
the very noble form of invocation with 
which the original of the prayer opened, 
the address being to Him on whose vesture 

* Seabury seemed to have doubted whether with- 
out the Invocation the consecration would be valid. 
On the question see the admirable discussion in 1'ai- 
mer's Origins* LUurgicct, vol. ii. p. 186. et seq. 



and on whose thigh the name was written 
*' King of Kings and Lord of Lords " 

Ser. xix. 16, xvii. 14) — " O Lorde Jesu 
riete, moste high, most mightie kyng of 
kynges, lorde of tardea, the onely rular of 
princes, the very tonne of God, on whose 
ryghte hande syttyng dooest from thy 
throne," &c. (Psalraes or Prayers taken 
oat of Holye Scripture, 1545.)* It is 
worth noticing in the American prayer for 
the President how the patchwork of the 
ohanges shows itself. God is indeed no 
longer " King of Kings and Lord of Lords," 
bat only " the high and mighty Ruler of 
the Universe," — President, as it were of 
heaven and earth ;f yet the prayer runs, 
* who dost from thy throne " be. This is 
an illustration of a truth often exemplified 
that adaptations of old forms can be sel- 
dom effected with complete success. 

II. Little, too, need be said of the change 
of certain words and phrases with a view 
to the removal of what was obsolete, or in 
order to attain what was supposed to be a 
greater correctness of expression. Under 
this head we find changes that are good, 
bad, and indifferent. Among , them we 
note the following: — "honourable" (Te 
Deum) gave place to u adorable;" 
44 wealth " (Litany and the Praver for the 
Queen), to " prosperity ; " " Bishops and 
curates" { to " Bishops and other clergy " 
(Prayer for the Clergy and People), and 
to " Bishops and other ministers " (Prayer 
for the Church Militant); " indifferently " 
(Prayer for the Church Mililant), to " im- 
partially ; " " most righteously have deserv- 
ed" (Litany), to "most justly," &c. ; 
"pitifully behold" (Litany), to ''with pity 
behold;" "after our sins," and " after our 
iniquities " (Litany), to " according to our 
sins," &c. ; "lively" (Baptismal Service), 
to "living;" "ghostly counsel" ("When 

• "It la not known who was the author of this 
fine composition, the opening of whloh Is equal in 
grandeur to anything of the kind in the ancient 
liturgies brea thing indeed the spirit of the Ter- 
saoo'.us and Triiaglon." — Blum's Annotated Book 
of Gammon Prayer, p. 26. 

t It sometimes need* care to avoid any appearanoe 
of straining alter a special appropriateness, which 
always savour* of irreverence. We cannot admire 
the mode in whloh Freemasons are wont to speak 
of God, when occasion requires, as " the Great 
Architect of the Universe ; *' a »d it was surely little 
short of bla<phemou* when Mr. Spurgeon (if the 
story be true) some months ago at Home invoked 
onr Lord as •• The true Victor Emmanuel." 

% The word titrate was used in its present vulgar 
sen*e as early as 1582. See the interesting note at p 
40 of Canon ltobert*on's How thaU we conform to 
the Liturgy of the Church of England, In whloh he 
rays, " I conjecture that the change may have been 
introduced at the settlement under Elizabeth, when, 
from the scarcity of qualified incumbents, the olass 
of subsidiaries was very greatly lnoreased." The 
word " cure " (Ordering of Frlests) is allowed to 
stand in the American Prayer-Book. 

the minister giveth warning for the cele- 
bration of the Holy Communion 1 '), to 
"godly counsel," and ," ghostly enemy" 
(Catechism), to " spiritual enemy ; " M sur- 
cease " (Ordination Service, rubric), to 
"cease;" "prevent" (collect in Commun- 
ion Service), to " direct," though the word 
" preventing " is allowed to stand* in the 
collect for Easter-day, and "prevent" in 
that for the Seventeenth Sunday after 

The whole phrase " with my body I thee 
worship " was omitted from the Marriage 
Service ; and the phrase, " how great 
injury ye do unto God " (address in Com- 
munion Office), became " how great is your 
ingratitude to God." While it is worth 
noting that " let" (collect for Fourth Sun- 
day in Advent), "kindly fruit3 M ('Litany,) 
and u alloweth " (Baptismal Service), are 
not touched. 

Among the changes which aimed, wisely 
or unwisely, at a greater accuracy of ex- 
pression, real or fancied, may be observed, 
" who " for " which," when referring to 
persons ; " rose from the dead," for " rose 
again from the dead " (Apostles' Creed) : * 
" spare thou those, O God, who confess " 
(General Confession), for "them . . . 
which," and "as we forgive those that 
trespass " (Lord's Prayer), for " them that n 
(ana similarly elsewhere) ; " chiefly " (Ex- 
hortation at Morning and Evening Prayer), 
for " most chiefly ; " " on earth " (Lord g 
Prayer), for " in earth ; " " devoutly kneel- 
ing " (Communion Service), for «• meekly 
kneeling upon your knees;" which last 
phrase no doubt must have been peculiarly 
distressing to the critical sensibilities of 
the period.f We gladly accept the change 

• The meaning or object of this change it Is diffi- 
cult to oonoeive. Could it possibly have originated 
in the fact that it Is within one'* power, by a per* 
verse ingenuity in emphasis, to imply, in reading the 
phrase, that our Lord rose twice from the dead i It 
6eema inconsistent when on the same page we Had 
14 rose again " in the Nlcene Greed, whloh is allowed 
as an alternative at Morning an l Evening Prayer. 
The "again " in the Apostles* Creed is, of course* 
the " re" of reewrexU. 

t " On what other part of the body but the knees 
could one kneel?" — the American purist will en- 
quire. 1 do nut know what the practice may be on 
the other side of the Atlantic, but certainly the sit- 
ting lounge forward, whloh Is still, in too many of 
our churches, the popular ritual interpretation of 
the rubrical direction to "kneel," makes one dis- 
posed to pardon the pleonasm of expression. Since 
this note was written I have met with some verses 
entitled "Dreamland," by Dr. Cleveland Coxe. 
Bishop of Western New York. The following lines 
conttrm my suspicions : — 

11 And Dreamland folk, they kneel them down 
Right on the stony floor; 
I saw they were uncivilized. 
Hot knew how we adore : 



of M Jesus Christ his sake " (Prayer for all 
conditions of men), into "Jesus Christ's 
take" — the former expression being in 
the second half of the seventeenth century 
only an affected revival of an obsolete 
error. " Cherubin and Seraph in " (Te 
Deuori was changed into " Cherubim and 
Seraph tW * The structure of the Abso- 
lution (Morning and Evening Prayer^ was 
unquestionably improved by the simple 
removal of the "and " before "hath given 
power," &c-, and by placing a period after 
the word ** sins." 

III. A vulgar false sentiment of modesty 
suggested that u fornication " (in the Lit- 
any) should be changed into " all inordi- 
nate and sinful affections." I suppose to 
some similar cause must be attributed the 
removal of the 127th Psalm from the 
Churching of women; and, with some 
more show of reason, the removal of part 
of the opening exhortation and the prayer 
for " the procreation of children " in the 
Marriage Service. And it was to this sen- 
timent, no doubt, was due the painful al- 
teration in the Te Deum of, "Thou didst 
not abhor the Virgin's womb," into <4 Thou 
didst humble thyself to be boru of a Vir- 
gin." f Id certain changes in the iection- 

11 And ret I taught them not, I own, 
Tbe posture more refined ; 
For well I knew tbe picturesque 
Scarce salt* the savage mind." 
• So too' it appeared in the frit Prayer-Book of 
Edward VI.: — in the second Prayer-Book a revis- 
km was made of the translation of the Te Deum, 
nd the termination In it, as in the 8arum Breviary, 
was adopted, and has remained. The distinction is 
wholly unimportant ; — the termination im being 
the ordinary Hebrew f jrm of the masculine plural, 
and i» it* Chaldalc modification. The latter form 
appears in some of the ancient MS8. of the LXX., 
and of the one passage of the N.T. in which the 
word occurs — Heo. ix 6 — (e^. Cod Sinai t icon and 
God. VatfcaniiiO, and it is the reading adopted by 
Tbchendorf and by Lachraann. Both forms were 
asedby Latin writers; and wben the true explana- 
tion was lo«t. absnrd interpretations of the distinc- 
tion were oflered, e.g. M Seraphin per N. sunt plure* 
Sell; seraphim, per M, anus." Honoring Angus- 
on. (Gommt Anlmse de antiq. rit. miss, lib i. 
cap 101.) The following distinction of grammatical 
■sage is drawn by Kemlgius Antlsslodor (de cele- 
srat. mtae. lib. i ): " Sciendum autem quod Cherub- 
iaet 8eraphln_per M literam prolata juxta proprle- 
tatem lingo* Hebraicm, Uaseulini generta et plural la 
aameri tanttim. Si autero, per N literam, dlcuntur. 
skat in P-aimis, et hymnis, et In presentl gratiarum 
aetlone [viz. tbe preface to the Ter-ganotus] ponun- 
tar. Graaca declinatione in neutrale genus mutata 
mteDialmus " 

t ''Shall we praise or imitate/' says the Arch- 
bishop of Dublin (Charge, 1871), -' them whose ears 
eso nice that they oonld not endure the refer- 
», in the Te Deum, to the pure mystery of the 
inn birth of the Saviour, and most needs substi- 
tute other word*, to them less indelicate, for those 
which have for fifteen centuries proclaimed that He, 
the eternal Son. when he took upon him to deliver 
man 'did not abhor the Virgin's womb.* " I think 
It worth noticing that I have found some striking 
eofoeklences between the alterations suggested in 
"The Book of Common Prayer, revised, corrected. 

ary the American Church has anticipated 
oar own, bat with much less skill, ana con- 
sequent success. 

IV. The laudatory terms in which the 
Preface to the American Prayer-Book char- 
acterizes the labours of the Royal Com- 
mission of 1689 indicate clearly enough, 
before our entering on the book, that we 
need not expect a very elevated conception 
of the nature of Christian worship, or any 
high sense of liturgical beauty; and on 
looking through the book we find it to be 
a matter of fact that what is styled the 
" great and good work " of 1683 had its 
marked influence on the American revision 
accomplished exactly one hundred years 
later. We may notice the following par- 
ticulars : — • 

(I.) In 1689, from the Calendar were 
removed all names not commemorative of 
persons and facts of the Scripture history. 
The American Church adopted the same 

(2.) In 1689, it was directed that " noth- 
ing is to be sung or chanted in the Church 
but Psalms, Hymns, or Anthems " (" The 
order how the Psalter," &c.) ; in the Amer- 
ican Prayer-Book similarly the option of 
"sung or said 1 ' is removed from the ru- 
brics before the Creed in Morning and 
Evening Prayer, the Litany, the Creed in 
the Communion Office. And it seems fur- 
ther to have been intended, beyond the 
spirit of the above direction, to discourage 
the singing of the Psalms by the removal 
of the colon, the musical puncta, corre- 
sponding to the close of the mediation of . 
the oh ant,* and the title-page was accord- 

and enlarged, by way of Specimen, London, 1784," 
and those adopted bv tbe American Church; among 
others, the garbled Vevite, and the alteration of the 
phrase before us, which was changed into "Thou 
»ubmltted«t to be born of a pure Virgin." Is it pos- 
sible that "confounded " was supposed to savour of 
slang? else, why the feeble change of the last verse 
of the Te Deum, in the pamphlet referred to, Into 
" let us not be disappointed ( !) and put to shame " f 
* But we must notice that the pointing was also 
removed from the Te Deum and Benedicite, though 
they are allowed to be sung. We may notice here 
that in the American Communion Servtoe a rubric 
occurs, " Here shall follow the Proper Preface . . . 
or else immediately shall be said or sung by the 
Priest and people. Therefore, with angels and arch- 
angels/' &o. This is to be regretted. The universal 
primitive usage appears to have been that which 
still prevails in our churches where the service is 
choral — viz. that the voices of the people should 
join in at the words " Holy, holy, holy/* and not 
before. "I may venture to observe," says Palmer 
(Origines .LUurg. vol. il. p. 127). " that, owing per- 
haps to a want of clear and definite rubrical direc- 
tion or from some mistake, it has been customary in 
many of our churches for the clerks and people to 
repeat, not only theseraphio hymn itself, but a por- 
tion of the premoe also, beginning at " Therefore, 
with angels/' to. This never was the custom of 
the Primitive Church and could not have been in* 
tended by those who revised our liturgy, nor Is it 
warranted by the nature of the preface itself It 



ingly altered by the removal of the words, 
'• pointed as they are to be sung or said in 

(3.) The diminution of the frequency 
of the occurrence of the Lord's Prayer is 
carried to even a greater extent than in 

(4.) Already in 1689 the Commissioners 
showed a feeling that they regarded the 
evangelical canticles as more or less un- 
Buited to public worship. The Nunc Di- 
mittis was removed altogether ; Psalm viii., 
" O Lord our Governor," was placed be- 
fore the Magnificat, and Psalm c, Jubilate, 
defore the benedictus.* In the American 
revision the Magnificat, as well as the Nunc 
Dimittii, was removed altogether ; and the 
Benedictus was curtailed by docking it of 
its last eight verses. I am sure many of 
my readers will find it difficult to conjec- 
ture a motive for so violent a departure 
from the ancient practice of the Church. 
But from a comparison of the mode in 
which the Venke and Benedictus are treated, 
we may gather that there was an objection 
to any expressions marked by a colouring 
of feeling that was local or temporal. 
" When your fathers tempted me, proved 
me, and saw my works. Forty years long 
was I grieved with this generation," might 
suit Jews very well, out not American 
Christians. It was too much to ask a citi- 
zen of the American Republic to sing " My 
soul doth magnify the Lord . . . for he 
hath regarded the lowliness of his hand- 
maiden" And the song of Zachary with 
its verse, " And thou, child, shall be oalled 
the prophet of the Highest," &c., was of 
course to minds with the same preposses- 
sions simply preposterous. Now, granted 
that it needs the imaginative sympathy of 
a devout heart to enter fully into these 
hymns, it should rather be iuferred that 

has, perhaps, arisen from the custom of printing the 
latter part of the preface in oonnexlon with the 
hymn Tersanctus. and from the Indistinctness of 
the rubric which, in fact, gives no special direction 
for the people to Join In repeating the hymn Ter- 
sanctus.** This should obviously be cleared up; 
and, let me add, the Amen following should (as in 
the American Prayer-Book) be printed in Roman 
type, not in Italic. In the l*t Prayer-Book of Ed- 
ward VI , **Tbl3 the clerks shall also sing/' is the 
rubric after the Tersanctu* % which is dearly marked 
off from the Preface. The word " also " means a* 
welt at the Prie«t t who must repeat it. A mediaeval 
ritualist tells us, " Huno antem hymnura et Ipse 
sacerdos cum alils necessarto debet dice re, ne Help- 
sum sua prece vldeatnr privasse, oui et sua* voces et 
alio rum angellcU laudibus adraitti deprecatus est in 
prefatlone " — (Hlcrologus, tie Ecel. Ob»ern. cap. xi.) 
• In the pamphlet referred to in a previous note. 
"The Hook of Common Prayer, revised, corrected. *• 
&c. (1784). which. 1 suspect, guided some of the 
leading minds of the American revision, we find the 
Jip.nedKtus, Magnificat, and Nunc Dimittis, struck 

what thus affords an exercise of that fac- 
ulty of the aoui that is roost markedly 
characteristic of the Christian temper, 
should by all means be retained. It will 
never be possible to make the whole of a 
rich and complex service like ours equally 
intelligible to all, and to all equally fruit- 
ful of spiritual joy and comfort.* It was 
to the same spirit that dictated these 
changes was due, in great measure, the 
desire to substitute M selections" of the 
Psalms instead of the Psalms for the day 
— to be used "at the discretion of the 
minister.'' Ten " selections" have been 
constructed. In each it is sought to place 
together Psalms possessing a common tone 
of feeling; local and temporal allusions, 
that could not at once, in their most literal 
form, be appropriated by the worshipper, 
were removed : e.g., verses 18, 19, " O be 
favourable and gracious unto Sion," &c, 
were removed from Psalm li. : verses 8, 9, 
"Therefore will I remember thee . . . the 
little hill of Hermon. One deep calleth 
another," &c, from Psalm xlii. Again, on 
other grounds, the minatory Psalms are 
avoided, and all expressions of anger and 
indignation are expunged ; e.g., verses 5-9 
from Psalm cxlix.t Bishop White, indeed, 
expressly declared in favour of the vague 
standard of the feelings of the ordinary 
congregation as determining the character 
of the public expression alike of praise 
and peniteuce. I cannot but fear that even 
the " Selections " rise above the ordinary 
level of religious feeling in American con- 
gregations, as they certainly would do with 
us, were they adopted on this side of the 
Atlantic. Most truthfully has it been said, 
" The Service brings before us on the same 
day Psalms written in the most different 
states of mind, expressive of the most dif- 
ferent feelings. If we have sympathized 
in one, it often seems a painful effort to 
join in the rest. And so it must as long 
as we look upon prayer and praises as ex- 
pressions of our moods, as long as we are 
not joining in them because we belong to a 

* For the rationale at the oantlole* In their places 
in Divine Servloe, see Freeman's Principle* of />♦- 
vine Service, vol. 1. chap. iv. § 4. It is worth ob- 
serving that one of the edition* of the 1st Prayer- 
Book of Edward VI., entitles the Uenediotu*, 
" Thanksgiving for the performance of God's nrora- 
Ises." glviug the key to the hymn. On the' None 
Dimittis. Mr. Frederick D. fttaurioa {The Prayer 
Book, p. 149) says truly, " If this hymn (the Miq- 
nijlcai) is rightly the preparation for reading the 
EDktles. the Nunc V'mitttt U the true expression 
of rest and satisfaction in the full declaration which 
they contain of the good things which eye hath not 
seen, nor ear heard, but whtoh God hath given to 
them that love film." 

t Similarly. *• the three children '* have been turn, 
ed out of their own song For another reason, the 
loth verse is removed from Psalm oxlvli. 



family and count it our highest glory to 
lose ourselves iu it and in Him who is the 
bead of it. We must be educated into 
that knowledge. It may be alow in com- 
ing, but till it comes the Psalms are not 
intelligible to us ; our Christian position is 
not intelligible to ns ; we do not more than 
half enter into the parts of the service 
which we seem to enter into most." * 

V. "It seems unnecessary," says the 
Preface to the American Prayer-Book, " to 
enumerate all the different alterations and 
amendments. Tbey will appear, and it is 
to be hoped the reasons of them also, upon 
a comparison of this with the Book of 
Common Prayer of the Church of Eng- 
land." The hope here expressed has cer- 
tainly been belied, so far as the present 
writer is concerned, in more than a few in- 
stances in his collation of the two books. 

(1.) Other minds may be more fertile in 
conjectures, but we veuture to s-xy that, 
except it was with a view to deliberately 
accommodate the service to the listless 
practice which the indifference of too many 
congregations made prevalent, it is scarce- 
ly possible to fancy the object intended in 
the senseless and melancholy abridgment 
of the responsorial portions of Morning 
and Evening Prayer. The Versicle, " O 
God, make speed to save us" and its re- 
sponse used from time immemorial iu the 
opening of the daily serviee, have been re- 
moved^ so too have been the lesser litany 

• PraAsftor F. D. Maurice, The Prayer Book, p. 


t Since writing the above lines, it has occurred to 
ae that, at the bottom of the objection to this versl- 
de and its response, was some feeling associated 
with the word '* save " In its popular sense, after 
which itwoold be needless to ask for "help"; or 
could it possibly be reckoned, after the rationalising 
saetbod of that day, •• not in accordance with right 

o in the strict propriety of langnage," to ask 
God to make haste? There is some continuation, 
perhaps, for this latter conjecture, in the fact that 
n the " Order for the burial of the dead," the clause 
" that it mar please Thee shortly to accomplish the 
Bomber of Thine elect and to hasten Thy kingdom," 
U wholly omitted. But the matter is of no possi- 
ble Importance, save that it suggests alarming ap- 
preheufdotM that what a perverse spirit of criticism 
das once done it may do again. It is worth observ- 
iaf that the English rendering of^V. "Deua, in 
aajutorinm meum intende." K. " Domlne ad adju- 
vandnmme festlna" — is unsatisfactory. It Is un- 
ttfofaetory because (1) the force of the response is 
weaker than that of the vervicle, and (2) the divine- 
ttoa of •• save " and ''help" is introduced gratui- 
tously— while the chl'f fitness ar.d beauty of the 
original lies in the response, ivlterating with greater 
earnestness the tame thought. A pryraer, of the 
fourteenth century, rendered the word* by " God, 
take need to mine help. — Lord hie Thee to help 
me," — which, if it be rough, is, at least, forcible 
and correct. Henry VIII.'s 1'rimer of 1L45 (follow- 
ed by the Elizabethan Primer of 1659). gives u* " O 
God. to help me it eke good speed. Lord make 
ka«te to help me." which seems to me preferable to 
the rendering of our Prayer- Book. The rationale 
tt tab versicle and its response lies not only In the 

after the Creed, and all the venules and 
responses preceding the collects — except 
the first and last. 9 

(2.) Three additional passages of Scrip- 
ture have been prefixed to tho opening 
sentences of our Prayer-Book. It will be 
observed that none of them pretend to 
be any of the " sundry places " of the Ex- 
hortation. Ttie first is a very noble verse, 
" The Lord is in his holy temple ; let all 
the earth keep silence before him," — but 
surely inappropriate, when the minister is 
compelled immediately after to babble 
out, " Dearly beloved brethren, the Scrip- 
ture moveth," &c. The # other two sen- 
tences (Mai. i. 11, Psalm xix. 14, 15,) are 
a decided gain. 

(3.) We cannot but regret that the 
Gloria in Excelsis has been allowed as an 
alternative with the Gloria Patri at the end 
of the whole " portiou n or selection " of 
the Psalms for the day. 

(4.) We have spoken of the " Selec- 
tions " from the Psalms ; another feature 
of the American Prayer-Book, is the com- 
pilation of certain centos to be substi- 
tuted for the Veniie on Christmas-day, Ash 
Wednesday, Good Friday, Ascension-day, 
and Whitsunday, * when any of the fore- 
going selections are to follow instead of 
the Psalms as in the table." The Easter 
Anthem probably suggested the idea. The 
verses are mostly ta :en from the Psalms 
proper to each day. We can, in this 
place, say no more of the subject, than 
that the true solution of the problem here 
suggested is without question the revival 
of the Invitatory and Antiphon. 

(3,) We have already noticed the re- 
general sense of our defenceless position as against 
our spiritual enemies, if God be not our defender, 
and of our utter weakness to do anything that is 
good without Ills help, but in a special sense of the 
need of God's help brought out prominently into 
consciousness by a feeling of the great ne-s and so- 
lemnity of the office upon which we are entering — 
praying God's help, " ut dionk. attentk, ao db> 
votk hoc Offloium reel tare valeam " (Oratio dioenda 
ante Dlvinum Officium, Brev. Rom.). It will be 
remembered, that till the most unhappy blunder 
of prefixing the Exhortation, Confession, and 
Absolution, these words stood, at the opening 
of the service as in the old offices, immediately 
after "O Lord open." fee In support of the 
special view of the rationale of this versicle here 

frat forward, see Honorius Augustodun, Gem. An. 
lb. I. cap. 156. lib. 11., cap. 18, and Walafrld 
Strabo. de reb. Keel., cap. 25. 

• The versicle. •• Give peace in our time, O Lord," 
and its re.<pon>e, "Because there is none other that 
fighteth for us but only Thou, O God." have long 
been felt as open to objection. In 1639. the response 
suggested was, " That we may serve Thee without 
fear all the days of our life." " The Prayer-Book, 
revised," fro. (1734), gives us the prosaic, " And 
when we are engaged In war, give us sucoess and 
victory." How far all these fall below " Domlne, 
flat pax in vlrtute tua. £t abundantia in tuxriboa 
tute fi 



moval of the Atbanasian Greed. That 
there is, at the present day, in the Ameri- 
can Church a strong reactionary feeling, 
however limited in extent, in favour of its 
restoration, was shown by the Bishop of 
Chester in his recent speech in the Convo- 
cation of the Northern Province. 

(6.) The dulness of all aesthetic sensi- 
bility could not be more plainly and sadly 
exhibited than by the removal from the 
Evening Service of that exquisitely beau- 
tiful collect, "for aid against all perils." 
What can be thought of men, who knew 
how to supply alternatives so freely, when 
they removed the prayer, — '* Lighten our 
darkness, we beseech Thee, O Lord," &c. 1 
The ground of the objection was, that 
Evening Prayer is often said early in the 
afternoon, in the full blaze of daylight. 
And we should not disapprove of the use 
of an alternative collect;* but why re- 
move a form that has for fourteen hun- 
dred years held its place in the evening 
prayers of the Church, and for all later 
evening services is surely the perfection 
of appropriate beauty ? f 

VI. On the Communion Service, as we 
have already noticed, the Scotch Liturgy, 
through Bishop Seabury's effort, exercised 
a powerful influence. But the order of 
the English Office is in general retained. 
We may notice the following particu- 
lars : — 

$1.) " And the Minister, standing at the 
„ / side of the table, or where morning 
and evening prayer is appointed to be said," 
&c (rubric). An American concession to 
the Puritan objection against the shifting 
from one place to another. • 

(2.) Immediately after the recitation of 
the Commandments, "the minister may 
say — Hear also what our Lord Jesus 
Christ saith — Thou shalt love the Lord 

thy God all the law and the 

rophets." This was suggested, no doubt, 
y the Scotch Liturgy of 1637, in which 
there is a rubric preceding the Ten Com- 
mandments, " the people all the while 
kneeling, and asking God's mercy for the 
transgression of every duty therein ; either 
according to the letter, or to the mystical 
importance of the said commandment." 
The passage above quoted from St. Mat- 
thew's Gospel is, in the Non-jurors' Liturgy 

• One of the most touching and eloquent passages 
in De Qulnoey's writings, la the description of the 
feelings awakened in his mind, when a boy, by the 
use of this collect at service in the school chapel, if I 
remember rightly, on a summer Sunday afternoon. 
I think it will be found in the Autobiographic 

t It will be remembered that it was from the Com- 
pline Service of Strum the oolleot was immediately 


of 1718, substituted for the Ten Command* 

(3.) The second of the six collects, *' to 
be said after the offertory when there is 
no communion,' 1 &c., is substituted for the 
Collect for the Sovereign. It seems to 
have no special fitness for this place, and 
the idea may be claimed by America as 
quite original. 

(4.) After the announcing of the Gospel, 
the people are directed, as in the Scotch 
Liturgy, to say, "Glory be to thee, O 
Lord." But the Scotch rubric, enjoining 
the people to say " Thanks be to thee, O 
Lord, 1 ' at the close of the Gospel, has not 
been followed.* 

(5.) The Apostles' creed may be used 
instead of the Nicene, and neither is to 
be used if " one of them hath been read 
immediately before in the Morning Ser- 
vice." No liturgy has supplied a precedent 
for this. 

(6.) An alternative proper preface was 
written for Trinity Sunday, retaining the 
words "Holy Father' 1 "in the introduc- 
tory address." 

(7.) But, passing over minor points, we 
come to the great marked feature of the 
whole service — The Prayer of Consecra- 
tion. This follows almost exactly the f new 
Scotch office (t.e\, as revised in 1765). 

The main features of the prayer, which 
is too long to transcribe, are, (1) that 
there is the Invocation, much after the* 
manner of the primitive Eastern liturgies, 
in which the Father is besought " to bless 
and sanctify," with His " Word and Holy 
Spirit," His " gifts and creatures of bread 
and wine," that we, receiving them accord- 
ing to Christ's "institution, and in remem- 
brance of His death and passion, may be 
partakers of His most blessed Body and 
Blood ; " (2), that the memorial of the 
Institution comes before the Invocation — 
not after, as in the Scotch office of 1637 ; 
(3), that the oblation of the " holy gifts" 
comes between the memorial of the Insti- 
tution and the Invocation. J 

* The fifth of the new Irish Canons (1371) permits 
" the word* 'Qlory be to Thee, O Lanl* at the be- 
ginning, and the words ' Think* be to Thre, O Lord,* 
or 'Hallelujah,' at the end of the Gospel." 

t The differences are, that the American Praver- 
Book follows the old Scatch (1837). nnd the Knglish 
office In the phrase " br HI* one oblation of Himself 
once offered ** (rather than " own ") ; (2) '• memory," 
similarly. U used in preference to " memorial; " (3) 
a more important particular U, that b>th old and 
new Hootch office were departed from in favour of 
the English, in the prayer that the oreatnrai of 
bread and wine "may become the body and blood 
of Thy most dearly beloved Son " 

% A dogmatic significance was seen in these 
changes in theSootob offloe. 8kinner(£cc/<**MMl{. 
col History of Scotland, p. 681.) tells u.«, "This re. 
visa! was undertaken in Ii65, by two of our BUhopa, 



(8.) "And when he delivereth the 
Bread, [to any one] he shall say, The 
Body," &c. The words " to any one " are 
omitted, with a view, I suppose, to the 
explicit sanction of the too common prac- 
tice of communicating by a rail-full at a 

(9.) The rubric forbidding a celebration, 
"except four (or three at the least) com- 
municate with the priest," — the rubric 
directing that " it shall suffice that the 
bread is such as is usual to be eaten,'* — 
and u the black rubric" are removed. 

YIL A brief notice is all that we can 
afford to the other offices, &c. 

(1.) In baptism it was permitted to dis- 
pense with the sign of the Cross, as had 
been already suggested in 1689, but with 
tis difference, that in 1689, the minister 
was allowed to feel scruples and make 
objection a3 well as the sponsors.* The 
words •* regenerate " and •• regeneration " 
were left untouched. 

(2.) In the Catechism an important 
change was made. In the answer to 
"What is the inward part or thing signi- 
fied [in the Lord's Supper] ? " — the words 
"verily and indeed " are changed into 
"spiritually." A change of less moment 
is the removal of the word ** elect," in the 
passage u Thirdly, in God the Holy Ghost 
who sanctifieth me, and all the elect people 
of God." 

(3.) In the Visitation of the Sick, the 
rubric directing the minister to move the 
sick person " to make a special confession 
of his sins (if he feel his conscience 
troubled with any weighty matter)/' and 
the absolution are removed. Two prayers 
are added, one, " which may be said in 
ease of sudden surprise and immediate 
danger," f the other, " A thanksgiving for 
the beginning of recovery." 

*ao were well reread in these matter*, and by some 
*jv alterations of expression, and a Judicious ar- 
nagenent of the several part*, especially by restor- 
ing the Invocation to its original position after the 
oobtion instead of standing, as it had done, before 
the words of Institution, have put the whole of that 
■ofeara offlce into such a form, as will be acknowl- 
edged by every one who is in the least conversant 
with antiquity, to be most agreeable to the nature 
tad design of that divine Institution itself, and. at 
the bum time, best adapted both to fence against . 
the norei doctrine of transubstautiation, and to 
aleaee any idle clamours, which ignorance or pre- ! 
Jaflos bad raised, or might raise, about our inolin* 
iat to Popery." 

* The cumbrous machinery proposed to obviate 
taeduleBUy fo a curiosity in its way. " If any min- 
ister, at his institution, shall declare to hi* Bishop 
that he cannot satisfy his conscience in baptizing 
aw with the sign or the Cross ; then the Bishop 
*afl dispense with him in that particular, and shall 
anae a curate who shall baptise the children of 
lasts hi that pariah, who desire it may be done 
vfik the sign or the dross, according to this office.*' 

t We mast say that we do not regret that our 

(4.) Tn the Bnrial of the Dead, a signifi- 
cant change is made in the first rubric ; 
" any that die unbaptized" is changed into 
" any nnbaptized adults." A patch-work, 
after the fashion we have already noticed, 
is made oat of versea from Psalms xxxix. 
and xc. " Dear brother " is changed into 
44 deceased brother ; "* " in sure and certain 
hope,"&c., into " looking for the general 
resurrection at the last day/' &c. ; the 
kyric is removed, as it was in Morning and 
Evening Prayer. The treatment of the 
two last prayers ("one or both " of which 
may be said), f seems really praiseworthy. 
We know that it is not unfrequent, when 
the words w We give Thee hearty thanks 
that it hath pleased Thee to deliver this 
our brother out of the miseries of this sinful 
world," are harshly inappropriate ; and as 
more frequently still, they come with an 
utterly false, or unreal, sound to the ears 
of the mourners, I am convinced that the 
word4 of the American office in this place 
would meet a very general approval — 
44 We give Thee hearty thanks for the good 
examples of all those Thy servant*, who, 
having finished their course in faith, do 
now rest from their labours/' Nor does 
the omission, from the second prayer, of 
the words " as our hope is this, our brother 
doth," in the least detract, as we feel it, 
from its tone of consolatory sweetness. 

(5.) In the Ordinal, the words " Receive 
ye the Holy Ghost," and "whose sins thou 
dost forgive," &c., remain, but an alterna- 
tive form is added — " Take thou authority 
to execute the office of a Priest in the 
Church of God, now committed to thee by 
the Imposition of our hands," &c. 

(6.) u A form of Prayer for the Visita- 
tion of Prisoners," drawn from the Irish 
Prayer-Book, is added. A " Form for the 
Consecration of a Church or Chapel " was 
aUo added in 1799; and "An Office of 
Institution of Ministers into Parishes or 
Churches," in 1804, which was altered into 
its Dresent form in 1808. 

We have now noticed briefly the princi- 
pal features of the American revision; 
and while frankly making all allowance 
for the difficulties of a task undertaken at 
such a time, and under such circumstances, 

office is wanting in the striking elegance of the 
following sentence, " If it be Thy will, preserve his 
lire that there may be place fbr repentance; bnt if 
Thou hast otherwise appointed, let thy mercy sup- 
ply to him the want of the usual opportunity for tne 
trimming of hit lamp " (/). 

• In 1889. simply •• brother." 

t Those who have officiated, as the present writer 
often has, with bare head, amid sleet and snow, will 
reckon the permission of abbreviating the service as 
no small gain for both priest and people. 



we cannot rise from oar study without 
feeling that the lesson is, on the whole, 
rather one of warning than of encourage- 


From The Cornhill Magazine. 

Part I. 


There were a great variety of houses 
on the Green ; some of them handsome 
and wealthy, some very old-fashioned, some 
even which might be called tumbledown. 
The two worst and smallest of these were 
at the lower end of the Green, not far from 
the M Barleymow." It must not be sup- 
posed, however, that they were unpleasant- 
ly affected by the neighbourhood of the 
"Barleymow." They were withdrawn 
from contact with it quite as much as we 
were, who lived at the other end; and 
though they were small and out of repair, 
and might even look mouldy and damp to 
a careless passer-by, they were still houses 
for gentlefolk, where nobody need have 
been ashamed to live. They were built 
partly of wood and partly of whitewashed 
brick, and each stood in the midst of a 
very luxuriant garden. At the time Mr. 
Bernhardt, of whom I am going to speak, 
came to East Cottage, as it was called, the 
place had been very much neglected ; the 
trees and bushes grew wildly all over the 
garden, the flower-beds had gone to ruin, 
the kitchen-garden was a desert, with only 
a dreary cabbage or great long straggling 
onion-plant ran to seed showing among the 
gooseberries and currants, which looked 
like the copsewood in a forest. It is mis- 
erable to see a place go to destruction like 
this, and I could not but reflect often how 
many poor people there were without a 
roof to shelter them, while this house was 
going to ruin for want of an inhabitant. 
" My dear lady, that is communism, rank 
communism," the Admiral said to me when 
I ventured to express my sentiments aloud ; 
hut I confess I never could see it. 

The house belonged to Mr. Falkland, 
who was a distant relation of Lord Good- 
win's and lived chiefly in London. He was 
a young man, and a barrister, living, I sup- 

Eose, in chambers, as most of them do; 
ut I wondered he did not furnish the place 
and keep it in order, if it had been only 
for the pleasure of coming down with his 
friends from Saturday to Monday, to spend 
Sunday in the country. When I suggested 

this, young Robert Lloyd, Mrs. Damerel's 
brother, took it upon him to laugh. 

44 There is nothing to do here," he said. 
" If it were near the river, for boating, it 
would be a different matter, or even if 
there was a stream to fish in ; but a fellow 
has nothing to do here, and why should 
Falkland come to bore himself to death ? " 
Thus the young inan ended with a sigh for 
himself though he had begun with a laugh 
at me. 

" If ho is so afraid to be bored himself," 
said I — for I was rather angry to hear our 
pretty village bo lightly spoken of — " I am 
sure he must know quantities of people 
who would not be bored. Young barris- 
ters marry sometimes, I suppose, impru- 
dently, like other young people " 

u Curates, for instance," said Robert, 
who was a saucy boy. . 

" Curates, and young officer?, and all 
sorts of foolish people/' said I ; " and think 
what a comfort that little bouse would be 
to a poor young couple with babies I Oh 
no, I do not like to see such a waste : a 
house going to rack and ruin for want of 
some one to live in it, and so many people 
famishing for want of fresh air, and the 
country. Don't say any more, for it hurts 
me to see it. I wish it were mine to do 
what I liked with it only for a year." 

'* Communism, rank communism," said 
the Admiral. But if that is communism, 
then I am a communist, and I don't deny 
it. I would uot waste a Christian dwell- 
ing-place any more than I would throw 
away good honest wholesome bread. 

However, this state of things came to an 
end one spring, a good many years ago. 
Workmen came and began to put East 
Cottage in order. We all took the great- 
est interest in the work. It was quite a 
place to go to for our afternoon walks, and 
sometimes as many as three and four par- 
ties would meet there among the shavings 
and the pails of plaster and whitewash. It 
was being very thoroughly done up. We 
consulted each other and gave our opin- 
ions about all the papers, as if it mattered 
whether we liked them or not. The Green 
thought well of the new tenant's taste on 
the whole, though some of us had doubts 
about the decoration of the drawing-room, 
which was rather a dark little room by na- 
ture. The paper for it was terribly ar- 
tistic. It was one of those new designs 
which I always think are too ecclesiastical 
for a private house — groups of five or six 
daisies tied together with long stalks, de- 
tached and distinct, and all the hair on 
their heads standi ug on end, so to speak ; 
but we who objected had a conviction that 



it was only our ignorance, and merely 
whispered to each other in corners, that 
we were not quite sure — that perhaps it 

was just a little but the people who 

knew better liked it very much. 

It was some time before we found out 
who the new tenant was. He did not come 
down until after everything bad been ar- 
ranged and ready for some weeks. Then 
we found out that he was a Mr. Reinbardt, 
a gentleman who was well-known, people 
said, in scientific circles. He was of Ger- 
man extraction, we supposed, by his name, 
and as for his connections, or where he 
came from, nobody knew anything about 
them. An old housekeeper was the first 
person who made her appearance, and then 
came an old man-servant ; both of them 
looked the very models of respectability, 
bat I do not think, for my own part, that 
the sight of them gave me a very pleasant 
feeling about their master. They chilled 
yon only to look at them. The woman 
had a suspicious watchful look, her eyes 
teemed to be always on the nearest corner 
looking for some one, and she had an air 
of resolution which I should not have liked 
to straggle against. The man was not 
quite so alarming, for he was older and 
rather feeble on his legs. One felt that 
there must be some weakness. in his char- 
acter to justify the little deviousness that 
would now and then appear in his steps. 
These two people attracted our notice in 
the interval of waiting for their master. 
The man's name was White — an innocent 
feeble sort of name, but highly respectable 

— and he called the woman something 
which sounded like Missis Sarah; but 
whether it was ber Christian name or her 
surname we never could make out. 

It was on a Monday evening, and I had 
gone to dine at the Lodge with Sir Thom- 
as and Lady Denzil, when the first certain 
news of the new tenant of East Cottage 
reached us. The gentlemen, of course, 
bad been the first to hear it. Somehow, 
though it is taken for granted that women 
tre the great traffickers in gossip, it is the 
men who always start the subject. When 
they came into the drawing-room after 
dinner they gave us the information, which 
they had already been discussing among 
themselves over their wine. 

"Mr. Reinbardt has arrived," Sir Thom- 
as said to Lady Denzil ; and we all asked, 

- When ? " 

fe He came yesterday, I believe/* said Sir 
1 nomas. 

" Yesterday t Why, yesterday was San- 
day," cried some one ; and though we are, 
is a community, tolerably free from preju- 

dice, we were all somewhat shocked ; and 
there was a pause. 

"I believe Sunday is considered the 
most .lucky day for everything abroad/* 
said Lady Denzil, after that interval ; " for 
beginning a journey, and no doubt for en- 
tering a house. And as he is of German 
extraction " 

44 He does not look like a German,*' said 
Robert Lloyd ; "he is quite an old fellow 
— about fifty, I should say — and dark, 
not fair." 

At this speech the most of us laughed ; 
for an old fellow of fifty seemed absurd to 
us, who were that age, or more ; but Rob- 
ert, at twenty, had no doubt on the sub- 

" Well," he said, half offended, " I could 
not have said a young fellow, could IV 
He stoops, he is awfully thin, like an -old 
magician, and shabbily dressed, and " 

**You must have examined him from 
head to foot, Robert." 

" A fellow can't help seeing,'* said 
Robert, u when he looks ; and I thought 
you all wanted to know." 

Then we bad a discussion as to whai no- 
tice should be taken of the new-comer. 
We did not know whether he was married 
or not, and, consequently, could not go 
fully into the question ; but the aspect of 
the house and the looks of the servants 
were much against it. For my own part, 
I felt convinced he was not married ; and, 
so far as we ladies were concerned, the 
question was thus made sufficiently easy. 
But the gentlemen felt the weight pro- 
portionably heavy on their shoulders. 

"I never knew any one of the name of 
Reinbardt," Sir Thomas said, with a mus- 
ing air. 

" Probably he will have brought letters 
from somebody," the Admiral suggested : 
and that was a wonderful comfort to all 
the men. 

Of course he must have letters from 
somebody ; he must know some one who 
knew Sir Thomas, or Mr. Damerel, or the 
Admiral, or General Perronet, or the 
Lloyds. Surely the world was not so 
large as to make it possible that the new- 
comer did not know some one who knew 
one of the people on the Green. As for 
being a scientific notability, or even a lit- 
erary character, I am afraid that would 
not have done much for him in Dinglefield. 
If he had been cousin to poor Lord Glyn- 
don, who was next to an idiot, it would 
have been of a great deal more service to 
him. I do not say that we were right ; I 
think there are other things which ought 
to be taken into consideration ; but, with- 



oat arguing about it, there is no doubt that 
so it was. 

The Green generally kept a watchful eye 
for some time on the East Cottage. There 
were no other servants except those two 
whom we had already seen. Sometimes the 
gardener, who kept all the little gardens 
about in order — "doing for" ladies like 
myself, for instance, who could not afford to 
keep a gardener — was called in to assist at 
East Cottage; and I believe (of course I 
could not question him on ttib subject ; I 
heard this through one of the maids) that 
he was very jocular about the man-ser- 
vant, who was a real man-of-all-work, do- 
ing everything you could think of, from 
helping to cook, down to digging in the 
garden. Our gardener opened his mouth 
and uttered a great laugh when he spoke of 
him. He held the opinion common to a 
great many of his class, that to undertake 
too much was a positive injury to others. 
A servant who kept to his own work, and 
thought it was " not bis place " to inter- 
fere with anythiug beyond it, or lend a 
helping hand in matters beyond his own 
immediate calling, was Matthew's model 
of what a servant ought to be, and a man 
who pretended to be a butler, and was a 
Jack-of-all-trades, was a contemptible ob- 
ject to our gardener : " taking the bread 
out o' other folkses' mouths," he said. He 
thought the man at the East Cottage was 
a foreigner, and altogether had a very poor 
opinion of him. But, however, what was 
a great deal worse was the fact that neith- 
er the man-servant, nor the woman, nor 
the master, appeared to care for our no- 
tice, or in any way took the place they 
ought to have done in our little com- 
munity. They had their things down from 
London ; they either did their washing 
w within themselves" or sent it also away 
to a distance ; thgy made no friends, and 
sought none. Mr. Bernhardt brought no 
letters of introduction. Sometimes — but 
rarely — he might be seen of an evening 
walking towards the Dell, with an um- 
brella over his head to shield him from the 
setting sun, but be never looked at any- 
body whom he met, or showed the least 
inclination to cultivate acquaintance, even 
with a child or a dog. And the worst of 
all was that he certainly never went to 
church. We were very regular church- 
goers on the Green. Some of us preferred 
sometimes to go to a little churoh in the 
woods, which was intended for the scat- 
tered population of our forest district, and 
was very pretty and sweet in the midst of 
the great trees, instead of to the parish. 
But to one or other everybody went onoe 

every Sunday at least. It was quite a 
pretty sight on Sunday morning to see 
everybody turning out — Dam i lies all to- 
gether, and lonely folk like myself, who 
scarcely could feel lonely when there was 
such a feeling of harmony and friendliness 
about. The young people set off walking 
generally a little while before us; but 
most of the elder people drove, for it was 
a good long way. And though some 
rigid persons thought it was wrong on the 
Sunday, yet the nice carriages and horses 
looked pleasant, and the servants always 
had time to come to church ; and an old 
lady like Lady Dentil, for instance, mu*t 
have stayed at home altogether if she had 
not been allowed to drive. I think a dis- 
tinction should be made in such cases. 
But when all the houses thus opened their 
doors and poured forth their inhabitants, 
it may be supposed how strange it looked 
that one house should never open and no 
figure ever come from it to join the Sun- 
day stream. Even the housekeeper, so far 
as we could ascertain, never had a Sun- 
day out. They lived within those walls, 
within the trees that were now so tidy and 
trim. One morning when I had a cold, 
and was reading the service by myself in 
my own room, I had a glimpse of the mas- 
ter of the house. It was a summer day, 
very soft and blue and full of sunshine. 
You know what I mean when- 1 say blue — 
the sky seemed to stoop nearer to the 
earth, the earth hushed itself and looked 
up all still and gentle to the sky. There 
were no clouds above, and nobody moving 
below; nothing but a little thrill and 
flicker of leaves, a faint rustle of the grass, 
and the birds singing with a softer note, 
as if they too knew that it was Sunday. 
My room is in the front of the house, and 
overlooks all the Green. The window waa 
open, and the click of a latch sounding in 
the stillness made me lift my head with- 
out thinking from the lesson I was read- 
ing. It was Mr. Beinhardt, who had come 
out of his cottage. He came to the garden 

fate and stood for a moment looking out. 
was not near enough to see his face, but 
in every line of his spare stooping figure 
there was suspicion and doubt. He looked 
to the right and to the left with ourioua 
prying eagerness, as if he expected to see 
some one coming. And then he came oat 
altogether, and began to walk up and down, 
up and down. The stillness was so great 
that, though he walked very softly, the 
sound of his steps on the gravel of the road 
reached me from time to time. I stopped 
in my reading to watch him, in spite of 
myself, Every time he turned he looked 



about htm in the same suspicious carious 
way. Was be waiting for some oue Y was 
be looking -out for a visitor ? or was he 
(the thought sprang into my mind all at 
once) insane, perhaps, and bad escaped 
from his keepers in the cottage? This 
thought made my heart jump, but a little 
reflection calmed me, for he had not the 
least appearance of insanity. The little 
jar now and then of his foot when he 
turned kept me in excitement; I felt it 
impossible to keep from watching him. 
When I fonnd how abstracted my mind 
was getting, I knelt down to say the Lit- 
any, feeling that it was wrong to yield to 
this; and when I got up from my knees 
the first carriage — the Dermis* carriage 
— was coming gleaming along the distant 
road in the sunshine, coming back from 
church, and the lonely figure was gone. I 
did not know whether - be had gone in 
again or had extended his walk. But I 
felt somehow all that day, though you will 
say with very little reason, that I knew 
something more about our strange neigh- 
boor than most people did on the Green. 

chapter n. 

This seclusion and isolation of East 
Cottage did not, however, last very long. 
Before the summer was over Sir Thomas, 
who, though he stood on his dignity some- 
times, was very kind at bottom, began to 
feel compunctious about his solitary neigh- 
bour : now and then he would say some- 
thing which betrayed this. "It worries 
me to think there is some one there who 
has been taken no notice of by anybody," 
be would say. " Of course it is his own 
fault — entirely his ewn fault." The next 
time one met him he would return to the 
subject. ''What a lovely dayl Every- 
body seems to be out-of-doors — except at 
East Cottage, where they have the blinds 
drawn down." This would be said with 
a pucker of vexation and annoyance about 
his mouth. . He was an^ry with the 
rtranger, and sorry, and did not know 
what to do. And I for one knew what 
would follow. But we were all very cu- 
rious when we heard that Sir Thomas had 
actually called. The Stokes came running 
in to tell me one afternoon. " Oh, fancy, 
Mrs. If usgrave, Sir Thomas has called I " 
cried Lucy. " And he has been admitted, 
which is still greater fun," said Robert 
Iioyd, who was with them. I may say in 
passing that this was before Robert had 
passed his examination, when he was an 
idle young man at home, trying hard to 
persuade Lucy Stokes that he and she were 
in love with each other. Their parents, of 


course, would never have permitted such a 
thing for a moment, and fortunately there 
turned out to be nothing in it ; but at 
present this was the chief occupation of 
Robert's life. 

" I am very glad," said L " I knew Sir 
Thomas never would be happy till he had 
done it." 

44 And oh, you don't know what funny 
stories there are about," said Lucy. 
" They say he killed his wife, and that he 
is always thinking he sees her ghost. I 
wonder if it is true ? They say he can 
never be left alone or in the dark ; he is so 
frightened. I met him yesterday, and it 
made mo jump. I never saw a man who 
killed his wife before." 

'* But who says he killed his wife ? " 

" Oh, everybody : we heard it from Mat- 
thew the gardener, and I think he heard it 
at the * Barleymow,' and it is all over the 
place. Fancy Sir Thomas calling on such 
a person; for I suppose," said Lucy, 
" though you are so very superior, you 
men, and may beat us, and all that, it is 
not made law yet that you may kill your 

"It mi<rht just as well be the law, for I 
am sure there are many other things quite 
as bad," said Lottie, while Robert, who 
had been appealed to, whispered some an- 
swer which made Lucy laugh. "Poor 
man, I wonder if she was a very bad 
woman, and if she haunts him. How dis- 
appointed he must have been to find he 
could not get rid of her even that way ! " 

" Lottie,* my dear, here is Sir Thomas 
coming: don't talk so much nonsense," 
said I, hurriedly. 

I am afraid, however, that Sir Thomas 
rather liked the nonsense. He had not 
the feeling of responsibility in encouraging 
girls to run on, that most women have. 
He thought it was amusing, as men gener- 
ally do, and never paused to think how 
bad it was for the girls. But to-day he 
was too full of his own story to care much- 
for theirs. He came in with dusty boots, 
which was auite against his principles, and 
stretched his long spare limbs out on the 
beautiful rug which the Stokes had worked 
for me in a way that went to my heart. 
That showed how very much pre-ocoupied 
he was ; for Sir Thomas was never incon- 
siderate about such matters. 

" Well," be said, pushing his thin white 
hair off bis forehead, and stretching out 
his legs as if he were quite worn out. 
" There is one piece of work well over. 
I have had a good many tough jobs in my 
life, but I dou't know that 1 ever had a 





" Oh, tell us what happened. Ib he 
mad? did he try to keep the door shut? 
did he hart you ? " cried the Stoke3. 

Sir Thomas smiled upon this nonsense 
as if it had been perfectly reasonable, and 
the best sense in the world. 

" Hurt me ! well, not quite : he was not 
likely to try that. He is a little mite of a 
man, who could not hurt a fly. And be- 
sides," added Sir Thomas, correcting him- 
self, " he is a gentleman. I have no reason 
to doubt he is a perfect gentleman. He 
conducts himself quite as — as all the rest 
of us do. No, it was the difficulty in get- 
ting in that bewildered me." 

44 Was there a difficulty in getting in ? " 

"You shall hear. The servant looked 
as if he would faint when he saw me. 
* Mr. Reinhardt at home ? ' Oh I he could 
not quite say; if I would wait he would 
go and ask. So I waited in the hall," said 
Sir Thomas, with a smile. " Well, yes, it 
was odd, of course ; but such an experience 
now and then is not bad for one. It shows 
you, you know, how little importance you 
are of, the moment you get beyond the 
circle of people who know you. I think 
really it is salutary, you know, if you come 
to that — and amusing," he added, this 
time with a little laugh. 

" Oh, but what a shame : how shocking, 
bow horrid I You, Sir Thomas, whom 
everybody knows I " said Lottie Stoke. 

"That is just what makes it so instruc- 
, tive," he said. " I must have stood in the 
hall a quarter-of-an-hour ; allowing for the 
tediousness of waiting, I should say 
certainly a quarter-of-an-hour; aqd then 
the man came back and asked me, what do 
you think V if I had come of my own 
accord, or if some one had sent me. It 
was ludicrous/* said ' Sir Thomas, with a 
half laugh ; " but if you will think of it, 
it was rather irritating. I am afraid I lost 
my temper a little. I said, 'I am Sir 
Tbomas Denzil. I live at the Lodge, and I 
have come to call upon your master/ in a 
tone which made the old fool of a man 
shake, and then some one else appeared at 
the top of the stairs. It was Mr. Bernhardt, 
who had heard my voice." 

• 4 What did he say for himself? * I asked. 

44 It was not his fault,' 1 said Sir Thoma* ; 
" he knew nothing of it. He is a very 
well-informed man, Mrs. Musgiave. He is 
quite able to enter into conversation on 
any subject. He was very glad to see me. 
He is a sort of reel use, it is easy to per- 
ceive, but quite a proper man ; very well- 
informed, one whom it was a pleasure to 
oonverse with, I assure you- He made a 
thousand apologies. He said something 

about unfortunate circumstances, and a 
disagreeable visitor, as an excuse for his 
man ; but whether the disagreeable visitor 
was some one who had been there or who 
was expected " 

" Oh, I know," cried Lucy Stoke, with 
excitement. " It was his wife's ghost." 

Sir Thomas stopped short aghast, and 
looked at me to ask if the child had gone 

" How could they think Sir Thomas was 
the wife's ghost ? " cried Lottie, " you silly 
girl ! and besides, most likely it is not 

" What is not true ? " asked Sir Thomas, 
in dismay. 

44 Oh, they say he killed her," said Lucy, 
44 and that she haunts him. They say his 
man sleeps in his room, and the house- 
keeper just outside. He cannot be left by 
himself for a moment, and I do not wonder 
he should be frightened if he has killed his 

44 Nonsense, nonsense," said Sir Thomas, 
raising his voice. " Nonsense ! " he was 
quite angry. He had taken up the man, 
and felt responsible for bim. ",My dear 
child, I think you are going out of your 
little wits," he cried. "Killed his wife; 
why, the man is a thorough gentleman. 
A most well-informed man, and knows my 
friend Sir Septimus Dash, who is the head 
of the British Association. Why, why, 
Lucy I you take away ray breath." 

44 It was not me who said it," cried saucy 
Lucy. * 4 It is all over the Green, every- 
body knows. They say she disappeared 
all at once, and never was heard of more ; 
and then there used to be sounds like 
somebody crying and moaning; and then 
he got so frightened, he never would go 
anywhere, nor look any one in the face. 
Oh 1 only suppose ; how strange it would 
be to have a haunted house on the Green. 
If I had anybody to <ro with me I should 
like to walk down to East Cottage at mid- 

44 Let me go with you," whispered 
Robert; but fortunately I heard him, and 
gave Lucy a look. She was a silly little 
girl certainly, but not as bad as that. 

"This is really very great nonsense," 
said Sir Thomas. " A haunted house at 
this time of day 1 Mrs. Musgrave, I hope 
you will use all your influence to put down 
this story if it exists. I give you my 
word, Mr. Reinhardt is quite an addition ; 
and knows Sir Septimus Dash. A really 
well-bred, well-informed man. I am quite 
shocked, I assure you. Lucy, I hope you 
will not spread this ridiculous story. I 
shall ask your mother what she thinks. 



Poor manl no wonder he looked uncom- 
fortable, if there is already a rumour like 

u Then he did look uncomfortable ? " 
said Lottie. 

"No; I can't say he did. No; I don't 
mean uncomfortable/' said Sir Thomas, 
seeing he had committed himself "I 
mean— it is absurd altogether. A 
charming man ; one whom you will all 
like immensely. I think Lady Denzil must 
have returned from her drive. We are to 
see you all to-morrow, I believe, in the 
afternoon ? Now, Lucy, no more gossip ; 
leave that to the old women, my dear." 

"Sir Thomas does not know what to 
make of it," said Lottie, as we watched 
him cross the Green. " He has gone to 
my lady to have his mind maderup whether 
he ought to pay any attention to it or not" 

"And my lady will say not," said I; 
"fortunately we are all sure of that. 
Lady Denzil will not let anybody be con- 
demned without a hearing. And, Lucy, I 
think Sir Thomas gave you very good ad- 
vice; when you are old it will be time 
enough to amuse yourself with spreading 
stories, especially such dreadful stories as 

Lucy took offence at this, and went away 
pouting — comforted by Robert Lloyd, 
and very indignant with me. Lottie stayed 
for a moment behind her to tell me that it 
was really quite true, and that the report 
had gone all over the Green, and every- 
body was talking of it. Nobody knew 
quite where it had come from, but it was 
already known to all the world at Dingle- 
field, and a very unpleasant report it was. 

However, time went on, and no more 
was heard of this. In a little place like 
Diuglefield, as soon as everybody has 
heard a story, a pause ensues. We can 
not go on indefinitely propagating it, and 
renewing our own faith in it. When we 
all know it, and nothing more can be Baid 
on the subject, we are pulled up short; 
and unless there are new facts to comment 
upon, or some new light thrown upon the 
affair, it is almost sure to die away, as a 
matter of course. This was the case in 
respect to the report about Mr. Bernhardt. 
We got no more information, and we could 
not go on talking about the old story for 
ever. We exhausted it, and grew tired of 
it, and let it drop ; and thus, by degrees, 
we got used to him, and became acquaint- 
ed with him, more or less. 

The other gentlemen called, one by one, 
after Sir Thomas. He was asked, timidly, 
to one or two dinner-parties, and declined, 
which we thought at first showed, on the 

whole, good taste on his part. But he be- 
came quite friendly when we met him on 
the road, and would stop to talk, and 
showed no oaoroseness, nor fear of any one. 
He had what was generally pronounced to 
be a refined face — the features high and 
clear, with a kind of ivory paleness, and 
keen eyes, which were very sharp to note 
everything. He was, as Sir Thomas said, 
very well-informed. There seemed to be 
nothing that you could talk about that he 
did not know ; and in scieuce, the gentle- 
men said be was a perfect mine of knowl- 
edge. I am not sure, however, that thev 
were very good judges, for I don't think 
either Sir Thomas or the Admiral knew 
much about science. One thin*, however, 
which made some of us still doubtful 
about him was the fact that he never 
talked of people. When a name was men- 
tioned in conversation be never said, " Oh, 
I know him very well — I knew bis father 
— a cousin of his was a great friend of 
mine," as most people do. All the ex- 
pression went out of his face as soon as we 
came to this kind of talk ; and it may be 
supposed how very much at a loss most 
people were in consequence for subjects to 
talk about. But this, though it was strange, 
was not any sort of proof that he had done 
anything very wicked. It might be — and 
the most of us thought it was — an evi- 
dence that he had not lived in society. 
" He knows my friend, Sir Septimus Dash," 
Sir Thomas always said in his favour ; but 
then, of course, Sir Septimus wa3 a public 
personage, and Mr. Bernhardt might have 
made his acquaintance at some public 
place. But still, a man may be of no fam- 
ily, and out of society, and yet not have 
murdered his wife. After a while we be- 
gan to think* indeed, that whether he had 
killed her or not, it was just as well there 
was no wife in the question — "Just as 
well," Mrs. Perronet said, who was great 
in matters of society. " A man whom no- 
body knows does not matter; but what 
should we have done with a woman ? " 

" He must have killed her on purpose to 
save us the trouble," said Lottie. But the 
General's wife was quite in earnest, and 
did not see the joke. 

chapter in. 

It is a good thing, on the whole, to have 
a house with a mystery about it in one's 
immediate neighbourhood. Gradually we 
ceased to believe that Mr. Bernhardt had 
anything criminal about him. But it was 
quite certain that there was a mystery — 
that we knew nothing about him, neither 
where he came from, nor what his family 



was. For one thing, he had certainly no 
occupation : therefore, of course, he must 
be sufficiently well off to do without that : 
and he had no relations — no one who ever 
oame to see him, nor of whom be talked ; 
and though the men who called upon him 
had been admitted, they were never asked 
to go back, nor had one of us ladies ever 
crossed his threshold. It would seem, in- 
deed, that he had made a rule against ad- 
mitting ladies, for when Mrs. Damercl her- 
self called to speak of the soup-kitchen, 
old White came and spoke to her at the 

fate, and trembled very much, and begged 
er a hundred pardons, but, nevertheless, 
would not let her in — a thing which made 
her very indignant. Thus the house be- 
came to us all a mysterious house, and, on 
the whole, I think we rather liked it. The 
mystery did no harm, and it certainly 
amused us, and kept our interest alive. 

, Thus the summer passed, and Dinglefield 
' had got used to the Scientific Gentleman. 
That was the name he generally went by. 
When strangers came to the Green, and 
had it all described to them — Sir Thomas 
here, the Admiral there, the General at the 
other side, and so on, we always gave a 
little special description of Mr. Reinhardt. 
"He is a Fellow of the Royal Society," 
one would say, not knowing much what 
that meant. "He belongs to the British 
Association," said another. " He is a great 
scientific light." We began even to feel a 
little proud of him. Even I myself, on the 
nights when I did not sleep well, used to 
feel quite pleased, when I looked out, to 
see the Scientific Gentleman's light still 
burning. He was sitting up there, no 
doubt, pondering things that were much 
beyond our comprehension — and it made 
us proud to think that, on the Green, there 
was some one who was going over the 
abstrusest questions in the dead of the 

It was about six months after his arrival 
when, one evening, for some special reason, 
I forget what, I went to Mrs. Stoke's to 
tea. She lives a little way down the lane, 
on the other side of the " Barleymow." 
It is not often that she asks any one even 
to tea. ' As a rule, people generally ask 
her and her daughters, for we are all very 
well aware of her circumstances ; but, on 

• this particular night, I was there for some 
reason or other. It was October, and the 
nights had begun to be cold; but there 
was a full moon, and at ten o'clock it 'was 
as light as day. This was why I would 
not let them send any one home with me. 

• I must say I have never understood bow 
middle-aged women like myself oan have a 

pretty young maid-servant sent for them, 
knowing very well that the girl must walk 
one way alone, and that, if there is any 
danger at all, a young woman of twenty is 
more in the way of it, than one who might 
be her mother. I remember going to the 
door to look out, and protesting that I was 
not the least nervous — nor was I. I 
knew all the roads as well as I knew my 
own garden, and everybody round about 
knew me. The way was not at all louely. 
To be sure, there were not many people 
walking about; but then there were houses 
all along — and lastly, it was light as day. 
The moon was shining in that lavish sort 
of way which she only has when she is at 
■ the full. The houses amid their trees 
stood whitened over, held fast by the light, 
as it were, as the wedding-guest was held 
by the eye of the Ancient Mariner. The 
shadows were as black as the light was 
white. There was a certain solemnity 
about it, so full of light, and yet so colour- 
less. After I had left the house, and had 
come out — I and my shadow — into the full 
whiteness, it made an impression upon me 
which I could scarcely resist. My first 
idea when I glanced back was that my own 
shadow was some one stealing after me. 
That gave me a shake for a moment, 
though I laughed at myself. The lights 
of the " Barleymow" neutralized this 
solemn feeling, and I went on, thinking to 
myself what a good story it would be for 
my neighbours — my own shadow 1 I did 
not cross the Green, as I generally did, 
partly from a vague feeling that, though 
it was so light and so safe, there was a 
certain company " in being close to the 
houses — not that I was the least afraid, 
or that, indeed, there was any occasion to 
fear, but just for company's sake. By this 
time, I think it mu3t have been very nearly 
eleven o'clock, which is a late hour for 
Dinglefield. All the houses seemed shut 
up for the night. Looking up the Green, 
the effect of the sleeping place, with the 
moon shining on the pale gables and ends 
of houses, and all the trees in black, and 
the white stretch of space in the centre, 
looking as if it had been clean swept by 
the moonlight of every obstacle, had the 
strangest effect. I was not in the least 
afraid. What should I be afraid of, so 
close to ray own door ? But still I felt a 
little shiver run over me' — a something 
involuntary, which I oouid not help, like 
that little thrill of the nerves, which makes 
people say that some one is walking over 
your grave. 

And ail at once in the great stillness 
and quiet I heard a sound quite near. It 



very soft at first, not much louder than 
a sigh. I harried on for a few steps 
frightened, I could not tell why, and then, 
disgusted with myself, I stopped to listen. 
Yes, now it came again, louder this time ; 
and then I turned round to look where it 
eame from. It was the sound of somo one 
moaning either in sorrow or in pain: a 
soft "interrupted moan, now and then stop- 
ping short with a kind of sob. My heart 
began to beat, but I said to myself, it is 
some one in trouble, and I can't run away. 
The sound came from the side of East Cot- 
tage, just where the little railing in front 
ended ; and, after a long look, I began to see 
that there was some one there. What I 
made out was the outline of a figure seated 
on the ground, with knees drawn up, and 
looking so thin that they almost came to a 
point. It was straight up against the rail- 
ing, and so overshadowed by the lilac- 
boshes that the outline of the knees, black, 
but whitened over as it were with a 
sprinkling of snow or silver, was all that 
could be made out. It was like something 
dimly seen in a picture, not like flesh and 
blood. It gave me the strangest sensa- 
tion to see this something, this shrouded 
semblance of a human figure at Mr. Bern- 
hardt'* door. All the stories that had 
been told of him came back to my mind. 
His wife I I would have kept the recol- 
lection out of my mind if I could, but it 
eame without any will of mine. I turned 
and went on as fast aa ever I could. I 
should have run like a frightened child had 
I followed my own instinctive feeling. 
My heart beat, my feet rang upon the 
gravel ; and then I stopped short, hatiug 
myself. How silly and weak I was 1 It 
might be some poor creature, some tramp 
or wandering wretch, who had sunk down 
there in sickness or weariness, while I in 
my cowardice passed by on the other side 
frightened lest it should be a ghost. I do 
oot know to this day how it was that I 
forced myself to turn and go back, but I 
did- Oh 1 what a moaning, wailing sound 
it was ; not loud, but the very cry of deso- 
lation. I felt as 1 went, though my heart 
beat so, that such a moaning could only 
come from a living creature, one who had 
a body full of weariness and pain, as well 
as a suffering soul. 

1 went back and went up to the thing 
with those sharp-pointed knees; then I 
saw the hands clasped round the kuees, 
and the hopeless head bowed down upon 
them, all black and silvered over like 
something cut out of ebony. I even saw, 
or thought I saw, amid the flickering of 
the heavens above and the shadows below, 

a faint rocking in the miserable figure ; — 
that mechanical unconscious rocking which 
is one of the primitive ways of showing 
pain. I went up, all trembling as I was, 
and asked u What is the matter ? " with a 
voice as tremulous. There was no an- 
swer ; only the moaning went on, and the 
movement became more perceptible. 
Fortunately, my terror died away when I 
saw this. The human sound and action, 
that were like what everybody does,^ 
brought me back at once out of all super- * 
natural dread. It was a woman, and she 
was unhappy. I dismissed the other 
thought — or, rather, it left me unawares. 

This gave me a great deal of courage. 
I repeated my question ; and then, as there 
was no answer, went up and touched her 
softly. The figure rose with a spring in a 
moment, before I could think what she 
was going to do. She put out her hands, 
and pushed me off. 

" Ah 1 have I brought you out at last? " 
she cried wildly ; And then stopped short 
and stared at me ; while I stared, too, 
feeling, whoever it might be she had ex- 
pected, that I was not the person. Her 
movement was bo sudden, that I shrauk 
back in terror, fearing once more I could 
not tell what. She was a very tall, slight 
woman, with a shawl tightly wrapped 
about her. In the confusion of the moment 
I could remark nothing more. 

" Are you ill ? " I said, faltering. " My 
good woman, I — I don't want to harm 
you; I heard you moaning, and I — 
thought you were ill " 

She seized me by the arm, making my 
very teeth chatter. The grasp was bony 
and hard like the hand of a skeleton. 

" Are you from that house V are you 
from him,?" she cried, pointing behind 
her with her other hand. " Bid Turn come 
out to me himself; bid him come out and 
go down on his knees before I'll give in to 
euter his door. Oh I I've not coine here 
for nought — I've not come here for 
nought 1 I've come with all my wrongs 
that he's douo me. Tell him to come out 
himself; it is his part." 

Her voice grew hoarse with the passion 
that was in it, and yet it was a voice that 
had been sweet. 

I put up my hand, pleading with her, 
trying to get a heariug, but she held me 
fa>t by the arm. 

44 1 have not come from that house," I 
said. a You frighten me. I — I live close 
by. I was passing, and heard a moan. Is 
there anything the matter? Can I be — 
of any use ? " 

I said this very doubtfully, for I was 



afraid, of the strange figure, and the pas- 
sionate speech. 

Then she let go her hold all at once. 
She looked at me, and then all round. 
There was not another creature ri Bible 
except, behind me, I suppose, the open 
door and lights of the " Barleymow." She 
might hare done almost what she would 
to me had she been so disposed; — at 
least, at the moment that was how I felt. 

* You live close by?" she Baid, putting 
her hand upon her heart, which was pant- 
ing and heaving with her passion. 

" Yes. Are you — staying in the neigh- 
bourhood ? Have you — lost your way I " 

I said this in ray bewilderment, not 
knowing what the words were which 
came from my lips. Then the poor crea- 
ture leaned back upon the wall, and gasped 
and sobbed. I could not make out at 
first whether it was emotion or want of 

" Yes, I've lost my way," she said ; " not 
here, but in life ; I've lost my way in life, 
and I'll never find it again. • Oh ! I'm ill, 

— I'm very ill. If you are a good Chris- 
tian, as you seem, take me in somewhere, 
and let me lie down till the spasm's past ; 
I feel it coming on now." 

" What is it V " I asked. 

She put her hand upon her heart, and 
panted and gasped for breath. Poor 
wretch I At that moment I heard behind 
me the locking of the door at the u Bar- 
ley mow. I know I ought to have called 
out to them to wait, but I had not my wits 
about me as one ought to have. 

" Have you no home V " I asked ; u no- 
where to go to? You must live some- 
where. I will go with you, and take you 

" Home ! " she cried. " It is here or in 
the churchyard, nowhere else, — here or in 
the churchyard. Take me to one or the 
other, good woman, for Christ's sake, 1 
don't care which — to my husband's house 
or to the churchyard — for Christ's sake." 

For Christ's sake ! You may blame me, 
but what could I do ? Could any of you 
refuse if you were asked in that name ? 
You may say any one can use such words, 

— any vagabond, any wretch, — and, of 
course, it is true ; but could you resist the 
plea, — you who are neither a wretch nor 
a vagabond? — I know you could not, 
any more than me. 

u Lean upon me," I said ; " take my arm ; 
try if you can walk. Oh I I don't know 
who you are or what you are, but when 
you ask for Christ's sake, you know, he 
sees into your heart. If you have any 
place that I can take you to, tell me ; you 

mast know it is cRflcult to take a stranger 
into one's house like this. Tell me if you 
have not some room — some place where 
yon can be taken care of; I will give you 
what you want all the same." 

We were going on all this time, walking 
slowly towards my house ; she was gasp- 
ing, holding one hand to her heart, and 
with the other leaning heavily on me. 
When I made this appeal to her she 
stopped and turned half round, waving 
her hand towards the house we were 
leaving behind us. 

" If that is Mr. Reinhardt's house, 1 ' she 
said, '* take me there, if you will. I am 
— his wife. He'll leave me to die — on 
the doorstep — most likely; and be glad. 
I haven't strength — to — say more. 1 ' 

" His wife I " I cried, in my dismay. 

"Lord have mercy upon us I" cried 
the panting creature. "Ay; that's the 

What could I do? She was scarcely 
able to totter along, panting and breath- 
less. It was her heart. Poor soul ! how 
could any one tell what she might hare 
had to suffer. I took her, though with 
trembling — what could I do else? — to 
my own house. 


I cannot attempt to describe what my 
feelings were when I went into my own 
house with that strange woman. Though 
it was a very short way, we took a long 
time to get there. She had disease of the 
heart evidently, and one of the paroxysms 
had come on. 

" I shall be better by-and-by," she said 
to me, gasping as she leaned on my arm. 

My mind was in such a confusion that I 
did not know what I was doing. She 
might be only a tramp, a thief, a vagabond. 
As for what she had said of being Mr. 
Reinhardt's wife My head swam, 1 

could neither understand nor explain (o 
myself how I had got into such a position. 
But whether she was good or bad, I could 
not help myself; I was committed to it. 
Every house on the Green was closed and 
silent. The shutters were all put up at 
the "Barleymow," and silence reigned. 
No, thank heaven 1 in the Admiral's win- 
dow there was still lights: so that if any- 
thing happened I could call him to my aid. 
He was my nearest neighbour, and the 
Bight of his lights gave me confidence. 

My maid gave a little shriek when Bhe 
opened the door, and this, too, roused me. 
I said, " Mary, this — lady is ill; she will 
lie down on the sofa in the drawing-room 
while we get ready the west room. You 



will not mind the trouble, I am rare, when 
you see how ill she is." 

This I said to smooth© matters, for it is 
Bot to be supposed that Mary, who was 
already yawning at my late return, should 
be quite pleased at being sent off to make 
up a bed and prepare a room unexpected- 
ly, as it were, in the middle of the night. 
And I was glad, also, to send her away, 
for I saw her give a wondering look at the 
poor creature^ clothes, which were dusty 
and soiled. She had been sitting on the 
dusty earth by Mr. Reinhardt's cottage, 
and it waa not wonderful if her clothes 
showed marks of it. I made her lie down 
on the sofa, and got her some wine. Poor 
forlorn creature I The rest seemed to be 
life, however, to her. She sank back upon 
the soft cushions, and her heavy breathing 
softened almost immediately. I left her 
there (though I confess, not without a 
alight sensation of fear), and went to the 
west room to help Mary. It was a room 
we seldom used, at the end .of a long pas- 
sage, and, therefore, the one best fitted to 
pt a stranger, about whom I knew noth 
mg, in. Mary did not say anything, but I 
could feel that she disapproved of me in 
every pat she gave to the fresh sheets and 
pillows. And I waa conciliatory, as one 
» often is to one's servants. I drew a 
little picture of how I had found the " poor 
lady " panting for breath and unable to 
walk — how weak and how thin she was — 
sad what a terrible thing to have heart-dis- 
ease, which came on with any exertion — 
and how anxious her friends must be.. 

All this Mary listened to in grim silence, 
patting now and then the bedclothes with 
her band, as if making a protest against 
all I said. At length, when I had ex- 
hausted my eloquence, and began to grow 
a little angry, Mary cleared her throat 
and replied. 

" Please, ma'am, I know it ain't my place 
to speak " 

"Oh! you can say what you please, 
Mary, so long as it is not unkind to your 
neighbors," Baid 1. 

" I never set eyes on the < — lady — before, 
so she can't be a neighbour of mine," said 
Mary; "but she's been seen about the 
Green days and days. I've seen her my- 
self a haunting East Cottage, where that 
poor gentleman lives.'* 

u You said this moment that you never 
set eyes on her before." 

"Not to know her, ma'am," said Mary; 
a it's different. I saw her to-day walking 
up and down like a ghost, and I wouldn't 
have given six-pence for all she had on her. 
It ain't my place to speak, but one as you 

don't know, and as may have a gang ready 
to murder us all in our beds — — Mother 
was in service in London when she was 
young, and ohl to hear the tales she 
knows. Pretending to be ill is the com- 
monest trick of all, mother says, and then 
they get took in, and then, when all's still 

" It is very kind of you, I am sure, to 
instruct me by your mother's experiences," 
said I, feeling very angry. " Now you can 
go to bed if you please, and lock your 
door, and then you will be safe. I shall 
not want you any more to-night." 

" Oh 1 but please, ma'am, I don't want 
to leave you by yourself — please, I don't I " 
cried Mary, with the ready tears coming 
to her eyes. 

However, I sent her away. I was angry, 
and perhaps unreasonable, as people gen- 
erally are when they are angry ; though, 
when Mary went to bed, I confess it was 
not altogether with an easy mind that I 
found myself alone with the stranger in 
the silent house. It is always a comfort to 
know that there is some one within reach. 
I went back softly to the drawing-room. 
She was still lying on the sofa, quite mo- 
tionless and quiet, no longer panting as 
she had done. When I looked at her 
closely I saw that she had dropped asleep. 
The light of the lamp was full on her face, 
and yet she had dropped asleep, being, as 
I Buppose, completely worn out. I saw her 
face then for the first time, and it startled 
me. It was not a face which you could 
describe by any of the lighter words of 
admiration as pretty or handsome. It was * 
simply the most beautiful face I ever saw 
in my life. It was pale and worn, and 
looked almost like death lying back in that 
attitude of utter weakness on the velvet 
cushions; and, though the eyes were 
closed, and the effect of them lost, it was 
impossible to believe that the loveliest eyes 
in the world could have made her more 
beautiful. She had dark hair, wavy and 
slightly curling upon the forehead; her 
eyelashes were very long and dark, and 
curled upwards; her features, I think, 
must have been perfect ; and the look of 
pain had gone from her face ; she was as 
serene as if she had been dead. 

I was very much startled by this: so 
much so that for the moment I sank down 
upon a chair, overcome by confusion and 
surprise, and did not even shade the lamp, 
as I had intended to do. You may wander 
that I should be so much surprised, but 
then you must remember that great beauty 
is not common anywhere, and that to pick 
it out of the ditch, as it were, and find it 



thus in the person of one who might be a 
mere vagabond and vagrant for aught you 
could tell, was very strange and startling. 
It took away my breath; and then, the 
figure which belonged to this face formed 
so strange a contrast with it. I know, as 
everybody else does, that beauty is but 
skin-deep ; that it is no Bign of excellence, 
or of mental or moral superiority in any 
way ; that it is accidental and independent 
of the character of its possessor as good 
family is or anything else you are born to : 
I know all this perfectly well; and yet I 
feel, as I suppose everybody else does, that 
great beauty is out of place in squalid 
Burroundlugs. When I saw the Worn and 
dusty dress, the shawl tightly drawn across 
her breast, the worn shoes that peeped out 
from below her skirt, 1 felt ashamed. It 
was absurd, but such was my feeling; I 
felt ashamed of my good gown and lace, 
and fresh ribbons. To think that I, and 
hundreds like me, should deck ourselves, 
and leave this creature in her dusty gown 1 
My suspicions went out of my mind in a 
moment. Instead of the uneasy 'doubt 
whether, perhaps, she might have accom- 
plices (it made me blush to think I had 
dreamt of such a thin 2) waiting outside, I 
began to feel indignant with everybody 
that she could be in such a plight. Rein- 
hardt's wife I How did he dare, that mean, 
insignificant man, to marry such a creature, 
and to be cruel to her after he had married 
her! I started up and removed the lamp, 
shadiug her face, and I took my shawl, 
which was my best shawl, an Indian one, 
and really handsome, and covered her with 
it. I did it — I can't tell why — with a 
feeling that I was making her a little com- 
pensation. Then I opened one of the 
windows to let in the air, for the might 
was sultry ; and then I put myself into my 
favourite chair, and leant .buck my head, 
and made myself as comfortable as I could 
to watch her till she woke. I should have 
thought this a great hardship a little while 
before, but I did not think it a hardship 
now. I had become her partisan, her pro- 
tector, her servant, in a moment, and all 
for no reason except the form of her fea- 
tures , the look of that sleeping face. I ac- 
knowledge that it was absurd, but still I 
know you would have done the samo had 
you been in my place. I suspected her no 
more, had no doubts in my mind, and was 
not the least annoyed that Mary had gone 
to bed. It seemed to me as if her beauty 
established an immediate relationship be- 
tween us, somehow, and made it natural 
that I, or any one else who might happen 
to be in the way, should give up our own 

convenience for her. It was her beauty 
that did it, nothing else, not her great want 
and solitude, not even the name by which 
she had adjured me ; — her beauty, nothing 
more. I do not defend myself for having 
fallen prostrate before this primitive 
power ; I could not help it, but I don't at- 
tempt to excuse myself. 

I must have dozed in my chair, for I 
woke suddenly, dreaming that some one 
was standing over me, and starting at me 
— a kind of nightmare. I started with a 
lit;le cry, and for the first moment I was 
bewildered, and could not think how I got 
there. Then, all at once, I saw her, and 
the mystery was solved. She had woke, 
too, and lay on her side on the sofa, looking 
intently at me with a gaze which renewed 
my first impression of terror. She had not 
moved, 6he lay in the same attitude of ex- 
haustion and grateful repose, with her head 
thrown back upon the cushions. There 
was only this difference — that whereas she 
had then been unconscious in sleep, she 
was now awake, and so vividly, iutensely 
conscious that her look seemed an active 
influence. I felt that she was doing some- 
thing to ine by gazing at me so. She had 
woke me, no doubt, by that look. She 
made me restless now, so that I could not 
keep still. I rose up, and made a step or 
two towards her. 

"Are you better? I hope you are bet- 
ter V " I said. 

Still she did not move, but said calmly, 
without any attempt at explanation : " Are 
you watching me from kindness or because 
you were afraid I should do some harm ? " 

She was not grateful, the sight of me 
woke no kindly feeling in her, and I waa 
wounded in spite of myself. 

" Neither," said I; M you fell asleep, and 
I preferred staying here to waking you ; 
but it is almost morning and the oil is 
nearly burnt out in the lamp. There. 13 a 
room ready for you ; will you come with 
me now Y " 

" I am very comfortable," she said ; " I 
have not been so comfortable for a very 
long time. I have not been well off I 
have had to lie on hard beds and eat poor 
fare, whilst all the time those who had a 
right to take care of me 9i 

" Don't think of that now," I said. 
" You will feci better if you are undressed. 
Come now and go to bed." 

Sie kept her position, without taking 
any notice of what I said. 

" I have a long story to tell you, a long 
story/' she went on. " When you hear it 
you will change your mind about some 
things. Oh, how pleasant it is to be in a 



nice handsome ladtf* room again 1 How 
pleasant a carpet is, and pictures on the 
walls ! I have not been used to them for 
a long time. I suppose he has every kind 
of thing, everything that is pleasant ; and, 
if he could, he would have liked to see me 
die at hia door. That is what he wants. 
It would be a pleasure to him to look out 
some morning and see me lying like a 
piece oC rubbish under the wall. He 
would have me thrown upon the dust- 
heap, I believe, or taken off by the scaven- 
gers as rubbish. Yes, that is what he 
would like, if he could." 

* Oh, don't think so,f I cried. " He 
cannot be so cruel. He has not a cruel 


Upon this she sat up, with the passion 
rising in her eyes. 

"flow can you tell? you were "never 
married to him," she said. " He never 
east you off, never abandoned you, never 

" Her excitement grew so great 

that she now rose up on her feet, and 
denched her hand, and shook it as if at 
some one in the distance. " Oh, no," she 
cried, **no one knows him but me. 1 ' 

* Oh I if you would go to bed I" I said. 
* Indeed I must insist: you will tell me 
your atory in the morning. Come, you 
must not talk any more to-night." 

I did not get her disposed of so easily as 
this, but after a while she did allow her- 
self to be persuaded.. My mind had 
changed about her again, but I was too 
tired now to be frightened. I put, her into 
the west room. And oh, how glad I was 
to lie down in my bed, though I had a 
stranger in the house whom I knew noth- 
ing of; and though it only wanted about 
an hour of day 1 

From Temple Bar. 

When it is remembered what the con- 
dition was of nine-tenths of the vagabonds 
and adventurers who landed in England 
under the banner of Duke William, we 
are the more surprised than any person 
eboold be proud of being descended from 

To be sure, some of the least scrupulous 
and most lucky acquired lands, whereby 
those exceptional vagabonds became re- 
ipectable. They were " gentle," " noble," 
anything that a man can be who is 
"spacioos in the possession of dirt.* 1 We 
will hope that the Norman Marryat — " De 
Mary at," if you please — was one of the 

exclusive tenth who had something more 
than ruffianly qualities to boast of. Proba- 
bly he had a Christian name. For other 
distinction he was, perhaps, called after 
the village from whicn he was lured by the 
sound of the great bastard's trumpet and 
the lying of the duke's recruiters. 

Be this as it may, the Marryat* took root 
in this laud. They took a good deal of 
the land also. They earned honour by 
knightly service. They married heiresses, 
and manifested some peculiarity by dis- 
embowelling their wives ! 

Of course we mean their deceased wives. 
The custom, peculiar to the family — so 
we are told — must have been carried be- 
yond limits that could be tolerated. Else, 
why, in the reign of our second Edward, 
did the Bishop of Bath and Wells excom- 
municate a young Marryat for subjecting 
the departed wife of his bosom to this 
" fancy " ? Perhaps it was the bishop who 
was fanciful. 

After being a crusading, chivalrous, and 
flourishing race, the Marryats changed 
with political changes. One of them 
danced before Queen Elizabeth at Cam- 
bridge. But this young fellow, John, 
fought abroad as well aB he danced at 
home. He was as happy in love as in war, 
for he married the shy heiress of a Puritan 
sire, and became by that marriage not only 
a progenitor of Puritanical descendants, 
but the direct lineal ancestor of the au- 
thor of " Peter Simple," " whom no one " 
says his daughter, in a recently published 
biography, " would have suspected of be- 
ing of Puritanical descent/' 

However, there was a very mixed blood 
in the veins of our Marryat — Norman, 
Saxon, Cavalier, Puritan. His mother, 
Caroline von Geyer, was born in America, 
the daughter of a German gentleman. - His 
father was a well-to-do squire of Wimble- 
don, Surrey. Chivalry had not died out 
from his father's breast, who, when he waa 
a West India proprietor and a member of 
Parliament, was- the chief agent in passing 
a bill for the abolition of slave-grown su- 
gar. He had fifteen sons and daughters; 
and when he died, Campbell wrote twelve 
lines, by way of threnodia, which we re- 
joice to think were not inscribed upon the 
good man's tomb. 

As Marryat "learned with facility," the 
master was rash who declared that he 
would be nothing but a dunce, because he 
forgot, as fast as he learned. He was de- 
cidedly what we should now call a " bad 
boy," and waa flogged, accordingly, often. 
Yet he took pains in a droll way. He was 
a delicate lad, with a head that seemed dis- 



proportionate to his attenuated body. He 
once found some difficulty at getting some 
of his lessons into that head in the usual 
way. He was then a pupil at Ponder's 
End. Perhaps the name was suggestive. 
At all events, the master was astonished, 
on entering the school, to see the wrong 
end of Master Marryat in the air. He 
was standing on his head, and was trying 
to achieve his task in that novel position 
for a student. But he was much oftener 
on his feet, running away from school, till 
his sire was weary of spending money in 
recapturing him. His last escapade was 
caused by an injury to his honour. He 
was disgusted with having to wear the 
clothes of an elder brother, who had 
grown too big for them. Nothing remained, 
but to send him to sea. In 1806 Master 
Fred, then fourteen, was shipped on board 
the fighting Imperieuse, under the fighting 
captain, Lord Cochrane. This meant 
daily peril of life, and Marryat was de- 
lighted at the prospect. 

In that famous time, when this one ship 
was sufficient to embarrass a whole French 
army, by cutting off their supplies by sea 
and by pitching shot into their ranks as 
they showed themselves on the coast, the 
crews scarcely knew, for three years, what 
it was to be at rest from engaging with 
enemies afloat, cutting out (in boats) hos- 
tile vessels moored under batteries, in 
Beemingly safe harbours, or varying the 
turbulent tenor of their ways by storming 
forts, or executing other perilous exploits, 
on land. Men and officers dropped to 
sleep in the midst of their triumphant 
celebrations of victory, and were awakened 
to achieve fresh glory by the voice of their 
familiar friend, the gun. In that fighting 
period the powder got so burned into their 
faces that years could not remove it. 

It is certain that this perilous and 
bloody time was thoroughly enjoyed ; yet 
Marryat accused England of being natu- 
rally blood-thirsty, and not inclined to see 
anything glorious in a battle that was not 
gained by much loss of life. This was ra- 
ther the official view. Cochrane was ex- 
ceedingly careful of his men's lives ; but 
as he reaped successes without commensu- 
rate siaghter of his officers and crew, the 
Admiralty would not promote the one nor 
praise the other. Of his own life and 
limbs Mr. Midshipman Marryat was by no 
mears careful. In an engagement in the 
Bay of Arcajou he was struck down, and 
was afterwards laid out for dead, and for 
burial in the water. But he revived just 
in time. An unsympathizing officer looked 
down on the body, and, for the funeral 

oration, said that there was a cock that had 
done orowing and a chap that had cheated 
the gallows. The wounded, boy could 
scarcely speak for fainting, but he wagged 
his young tongne to the rather bold tune 
of " You're a liar." 

In the heat of action he did not even 
know when he was badly wounded. On 
one occasion he received three wounds; 
the worst of the three was in the stomach, 
and that was precisely the one of which 
he knew nothing till the fight was over. 
Yet it was a bayonet wound; but the 
bayonet had thrust into the wound a pvrt 
of the middy's shirt, which plugged it, 
and stopped all bleeding. When he after- 
wards undressed in his cabin and pulled 
off his shirt, away came the piece, which 
had not been torn from it, and which was 
in the wound. The blood then flowed, 
and the young fellow learnt how badly he 
was wounded. The wounds he received 
and the dangers he incurred never affected 
otherwise than beneficially his finer na- 
ture. There was aboard his ship another 
midshipman, named Cobbett, who was 
Marryat's bitterest enemy. Cobbett once 
fell overboard; Marryat plunged imme- 
diately after him, and held up the fellow, 
who had brutally treated him from the 
first moment of Marryat's joining, till a 
boat reached them and took in both rescued 
and rescuer. In a letter the noble young 
middy wrote to his mother, he referred to 
this incident, and added, " From that mo- 
ment I have loved the fellow as I never 
loved friend before. All my hate is for- 
gotten. I have saved his life." It should 
be added, that he saved many other lives 
under similar circumstances. On one 
occasion he leaped from the poop of the 
vessel, which was going seven knots .an 
hour, to save a poor seaman who had fallen 
overboard. The attempt failed, and Mar- 
ryat himself was nearly lost. He was 
nearly two miles astern of the ship, and 
had been half an hour in the water before 
a boat reached him and took him in. In 
some of these attempts he was on the 
point of drowning ; and he described the 
sonsation as that of being rather ten- 
derly and comfortably wrapped up in 
liquid green fields. He ran much greater 
peril in much less dangerous localities. 
After long uninterrupted service, he was 
in 1813 — then a lieutenant of a year's 
standing — dancing at a ball in Barba* 
does, when he broke a bloodvessel. He 
was consequently invalided. 

After rest came the Peace of 1815, which 
left Marryat further leisure for many- 
things ; among others may be mentioned 



his falling in love, and hia marriage in 
1819, with a knight's daughter. In 1820 
he was afloat again in command of the 
Bearer, which acted as a sort of sea-sen- 
tinel, cruising ronnd and round St. Helena 
till the imperial prisoner in that island 
died, 1821. Marryat took the nortait of 
the ex-emperor, as he lay, with hands 
crossed above the crucifix on his breast : 
a picture which has been engraved both 
hi France and England. The Captain at- 
tended the funeral, brought home the 
news of Napoleon's death, and in August 
. of the same year was employed in escort- 
ing the remains of poor Queen Caroline 
to Cnxhaven. 

Subsequently he wrote a pamphlet 
against the impressment of seamen : this, 
too, at a time when it might have marred 
his professional prospects. For Nearly 
three years (1823-6) he was actively en- 
gaged in the difficult but not inglorious 
Burmese war. He fought like a hero, made 
sketches as if he had been a professional 
draughtsman, and had a way of his own in 
picking up valuable trifles; it could not 
We been instinct ; he probably acted upon 
information. When prisoners of rank fell 
into his power he caused them to be 
stripped, and had their bodies subjected 
to being carefully felt by the hands of 
some of his Bailors. If they felt anything 
like a hard tumor it was immediately 
lanced, and the suppuration was in the 
form of a valuable jewel. Marryat no 
doubt knew that when a Burmese wanted 
to secure that sort of property he made 
an incision in his skin and thrust the 
precious stone beneath it. He had an eye 
here to his own interests, as the old bum- 
boat woman had who was upset with him 
and a midshipman, when the Captain's 
gig went over in Falmouth Bay. The old 
woman was as much at home in the water 
as if she had been born a mermaid. She 
playfully struck out and held up the Cap- 
tain, who, being able to hold himself up, 
bade her help to rescue the boy. The old 
lady stoutly refused; she wouldn't de- 
mean herself to save a mere middy when 
she might have the glory of saving the 
captain I 

When the latter was again out of har- 
ness he set up his home at Brighton, where 
there was a court of mingled etiquette and 
free-and-easiness. At " receptions " it was 
the custom to kiss Queen Adelaide's hand, 
and King William kissed each lady on 
either cheek. The Fitzclarences made fun 
of the ceremony, and would, with consum- 
mate vulgarity, ask of the groups of ladies 
among whom they stood, *' Well, has dad 

bussed you yet ? " His Majesty himself, 
as is well known, was not punctilious on 
points of ceremony. At one of the royal 
evening parties King William remarked 
that Mrs. Marryat often looked at the 
clock and then spoke to the Captain. At 
last he asked the lady the reason for this 
proceeding. She briefly Btated that Cap- 
tain Marryat and herself were engaged to 
a second evening party at that hour. 
" Then, why don't you go ? " said the 
king. The lady had to explain to him 
that etiquette compelled them to stay ro 
the room till their majesties had retired. 
"Oh, d— it!" exclaimed the religious 
and gracious king, " come along o' me, and 
I'll smuggle you out." 

Marryat manifested the straightforward- 
ness of his character when he stood candi- 
date for the Tower Hamlets. He depend- 
ed for success on his pamphlet against im- 
pressment, but he was questioned by an 
elector as to the equally serious question 
of flogging. The elector remarked that 
he had a son fit for the sea, and be was 
himself of an age at which he might go 
afloat, and he wished to know the Cap- 
tain's sentiments. Marryat might easily 
have evaded a dangerous answer, but he 
replied, with the most disagreeable frank- 
ness, that if father and son ever served 
under him, and he could not otherwise 
keep them from offending against the law 
of the navy, he would order them both to 
be flogged. He, of course, lost his elec- 

But life is full of compensations. Mar- 
ray t found some in literary work and suc- 
cess. Before he gave up the command of 
the Ariadne he had written " Frank Mild- 
may, or the Naval Officer," in which there 
are many reminiscences of his own life. 
For this first attempt Mr. Colburn gave 
him £400. By the time he had written 
" Japhet in Search of a Father," he could 
command three times that sum. Later 
still there was increase of honorarium ; yet 
Marryat called his work "slavery," and 
protested that the idea of Heaven was 
rendered tenfold more delicious to him by 
his conviction that no publisher would 
ever be allowed to enter into the joys of 
Paradise. That he was a good story-teller 
there is no gainsaying. Whatever he un- 
dertook to do he did it with earnestness. 
Wide were the extremes of his u doing." 
At one time leading an assault while can- 
non in front of him volleyed and thun- 
dered ; at another time by the bedside of 
his boys or girls, inventing stories to which 
they listened till the voice of the speaker 
gently monotoned them into slumber. 



During Marry at's visit to America, in 
1837-9, he displayed the best traits in his 
character. He expressed all his opinions 
fearlessly, and found that the Americans 
liked him all the better for it in time. At 
one period, indeed, he was hung in effigy, 
and copies of his books were burnt, simply 
because, on British ground, in Canada, he 
had described Captain Drew's cutting out 
of the Caroline as a gallant action. Hs 
brought home furs and skins, with which 
he decorated hid London house and filled 
it with (leas. When he betook himself 
again to literature, and contributed *' Jo- 
seph Rushbrook " to the Era newspaper, 
he was thought to have injured the dig- 
nity of authorship by writing iu a weekly 
newspaper. He was consoled by the re- 
sulting sum paid into his bankers. His 
own estimate of the literary man was not 
a high one. Like Congreve, Marry at 
seemed to think that a professional author 
aud gentleman could not be identical. The 
profits of the one, however, enabled him 
to play the higher line of character more 
successfully than he could otherwise have 
done, and perhaps ill health may accouut 
for some of his peculiarities. Warm- 
hearted, he was soon offended. " No one," 
says his daughter, "could have decided, 
after an absence of six months, with whom 
he was friends and with whom he was 
not." One of his friends said of him, " If 
he had no one to love, he quarrelled for 
want of something better to do. He 
planned for himself and everybody, and 
changed his mind ten times a day." After 
he turned farmer, in Norfolk, he laid aside 
the sailor, and dressed the new character 
as if he were about to play Hawthorn, in 
" Love in a Village." At times, indeed, 
he was like nobody but himself. Out with 
his dog and his gun he wore an eyeglass 
of very odd fashion. A strip of whalebone 
surrounding a plain piece of crystal was 
stuck through a hole cut in the brim of his 
hat, and so arranged as to hang down in 
front of his right eye. With the excep- 
tion of his linen, we are told that the gar- 
ments he usually wore were scarcely worth 
the consideration of the poorest man in 
the village ; and yet the delicacy of his 
everyday life is vouched for; but it is ad- 
mitted that his humour too often bordered 
on a want of refinement. 

The fact is, Marry at was an excessively 
passionate man; but he was not so at 
home. And that might well be, as he 
described his Norfolk home in 1811 : " My 
children are good, my household do their 
duty; we have no quarrelling or discon- 
tent among ourselves, and I have plenty of 

employment that interests me, as there is 
profit and loss attending it." His house- 
hold could not have been an extravagantly 
dear one to keep, for he says that a single 
music lesson by a master from Norwich 
would cost him more than it did to feed 
his whole household for a week. With 
doubtful farminsr, he followed literature 
for the benefit chiefly of the young. It is 
curious to find the author of ** Peter Sim- 
ple," on being invited to write a story in the 
" Novel Times," declining, on the strange 
ground that his name would do the paper 
more harm than good. Perhaps he grew 
afraid of criticism; this is the more proba- 
ble, as he was so anxious to protest that 
he did not care a jot for it. We do not 
know what the practice of reviewers and 
art-critics may be now. They were evi- 
dently of the no-be tter-th an-they-should- 
be class if Marryat was justified in saying 
in a letter to a friend : "J believe I am a 
proud sort of person for an author, as I 
neither dedicate to great men nor give 
dinners to literary gentlemen ; and dog 3 
will 8 nap if they are not well fed." This 
sounds ill, and indeed there are many 
passages in his letters that should not have 
been printed. It is easy to see who is 
meant iu the Lady M of the following 
passage from one of his letters : '• Lady 

M going to be married ! I did not 

think she was such an Irish jackass. I'd as 
soon go to church with a paint-pot." There 
was as little truth in the report as in the 
Captain's comment. Another singularity 
is to be found in the fact that, with all the 
money he made by his novels, he com- 
plained in his latter days of being in want 
of it. Probably the cost of being a gen- 
tleman-farmer absorbed the profits of 
authorship. Be this as it may, in 1315 ill 
health brought his literary career, save 
some work for children, to a close. The 
last novel in which he bad a hand was 
" Valeria," now for^otteu. Of this he was 
the author as far a3 down to a part of the 
third volume. Symptoms of the illness 
which became fatal to him manifested 
themselves; Marryat gave up the work, 
which was finished by another hand. 

Thenceforth the athletic form began to 
waste away. Ho who up to this period, 
with his weight of fourteen stone, could 
have leaped a ditch or cleared a railing 
with the agility of a man of five and 
twenty, began to fade out of existence. 
Iu the prime of his manhood and in the 
full vigour of his intellect the disease 
which overcame him manifested itself. He 
ruptured a blood-vessel, and lessened two 
atone weight by it. He could spare the 



Utter, bat the loss of blood was irrepara- 
ble. He lay on a mattress on the ground 
during the summer of 1818, uncomplain- 
ingly wasting away ; often cheerful, ouener 
wandering in his mind. The freauent 
rapture of internal blood-vessels, and the 
consequent increasing weakness, reduced 
the once powerful man to the mere shadow 
of his former self. He might have said, as 
Cornelia's spirit said to Paulas : 

"En mm quod digitis qainque levator onus." 

Early on an August morning of 1818, his 
family who were about hi in heard him 
murmur a sentence of the Lord's Prayer. 
As he finished it he gave a short sigh, a 
shiver passed through his frame, and he 

From The Cornhlll Magazine. 

There are few things more irritating 
to one who consistently honours dogs, 
than to bear superficial and indiscriminate 
people talk of those animals as if they were 
all alike in their mental and moral qual- 
ities, and only differed from each other by 
being white or black, rough-haired or 
silky-coated. " The dog," these persons 
will complacently observe, " is " this, that, 
or the other — "sagacious," " intelligent," 
and "fond of the chase." Or they will 
confide to you that "they like dogs in 
their proper place " (to wit, somewhere 
wholly out of sight), or " do not particu- 
larly care for a dog." They might just as 
well remark that " the man is wise, honest, 
and plays the fiddle ; " or that " they like 
human beings when they keep their dis- 
tance;" or a do not specially care for a 
man!" That every dog has his idio- 
syncrasy no less than his master has his 
own; that his capacities, tempers, gifts, 
graces, and propensities, vary through the, 
whole gamut of intellect, will, and emo- 
tion: and that it would be quite as easy 
to find two human as two canine So3ias, 
are facts which the vulgar and dog-igno- 
rant mind has never grasped. He who 
has once loved a dog, if he find courage 
after its loss to seek a second friend, near- 
ly always endeavours to procure one of 
the same breed, and, if possible, of the 
tame family, for his heart is drawn to such 
an animal by its likeness to the dead ; nor 
can he by any means transfer his affec- 
tions from the bold and brave mastiff to 
the tender little King Charles, nor from 

the fawn-like, coquettish Pomeranian to 
the sturdy and matter-of-fact Scotch ter- 
rier. But when the nearest approach pos- 
sible to the lost favourite has been found 
and installed in his place, the second dog's 
individuality is never for a moment oblit- 
erated, but, on the contrary, comes out 
every day in more vivid contrast to that 
of his predecessor. The old pit was per- 
haps some what narrow-minded — a dog of 
one idea, and that idea was Im master. 
To the rest of mankind he was reserved, 
if not indifferent; and, if forsaken for a 
time, he pined and refused to be comforted. 
His successor probably possesses the '- En- 
thusiasm of Humanity " to- a degree which 
often involves him in trouble in conse- 
quence of untimely caresses offered with 
muddy paws to unappreciative strangers, 
but which reassures us regarding his pow- 
er to receive consolation in case of our 
premature departure for a world into 
which we make no effort*, like the mighty 
hunters of old, to compel our dogs to fol- 
low us. Again, our first dog, after a rep- 
rimand, used to shrink from us for hours 
and convey by sad and solemn looks his 
sense that a cruel breach had been made 
in the harmony of our relations. The sec- 
ond will hasten to assure us that we are 
most graciously forgiven for our bad tem- 
per, and that, with all our faults, he loves 
us still. Number One was addicted to the 
pleasures of (or under) the table, and dis- 
played his feelings towards bones with un- 
affected simplicity. Number Two will 
blink at us urbanely as we proceed with 
our meal, and only towards the close of 
the entertainment, when the dreadful idea 
occurs to him that the courses are over, 
the dinner is ended, and he is not fed, will 
he rise in remonstrance on his hind legs 
and sit like a statue of Anubis till his 
wants be supplied. Number One was a 
dog of resources; and when his path of 
life was beset with any of the thorns 
which, alas I strew the road which dogs 
are born to tread — if a door were shut 
through which he desired to pass, or his 
water-basin were left unfilled when he was 
thirsty, or the rat he hoped to catch had 
retired into an inaccessible hole, — he 
would employ his whole energy and inge- 
nuity by scratching, whining, begging, 
watching and poking all round the prem- 
ises till he had attained his end. Number 
Two, on the other hand, when defeated in 
his first eager rush, always subsides rapid- 
ly and resignedly into quiescence, and 
seeks ere long that peculiar consolation for 
unsatisfied longings which is to be found 
in rolling oneself up into the nearest ap- 



proach to a circle attainable to the verte- 

Oar first dog seemed to lire in an at- 
mosphere of " refined and gentle melan- 
choly/' such as the divines of the last gen- 
eration considered the proper tone of feel- 
ing for mortals travelling through this 
Vale of Tears. His great mournful eyes 
looked as if they might at any time over- 
flow with drops from the depths of a di- 
vine despair, and only when he laid his no- 
ble head sadly on the tablecloth, and un- 
mistakably turned those eloquent orbs in 
unutterable longing towards the dish of 
biscuits, were we able to fathom the pro- 
fundity of his sorrow and hit aspirations. 
Our second dog, on the contrary, is blessed 
with a cheerful disposition, and evidently 
views the world as a place abounding in 
kind people, social dogs, interesting rab- 
bits, and abundant bones. His bark is 
like the laugh of childhood, and means 
nothing but that best of all possible jokes, 
" How happy I am I " He skips here and 
there as if wishing to go every way at 
once, and pursues the swallows and leaps 
at the butterflies out of mere joyousness 
of heart. And yet, again, Number One 
had an Oriental indifference for all pro- 
ceedings not immediately concerning him- 
self, and habitually lay down to enjoy his 
"kef on the rug whenever we ^rere par- 
ticularly busy, seeming to regard with 
pitying indulgence the fuss which two- 
legged creatures make about trifles discon- 
nected with the real concerns of life, 
namely, sport and dinner. But instead of 
calling Allah to witness our strange and 
foolish behaviour, our second dog takes 
the keenest interest in everything we do 
which he cannot understand — pasting, 
painting, needlework, using a sewing-ma- 
chine or a chessboard, lighting a spirit- 
lamp, arranging a cabinet, — it is all a mat- 
ter of in tensest curiosity to our poor 
friend, who stands on his hind legs for an 
agonizing period, and sniffs and looks, and 
asks us with his eyes, What it all means ? 
And, alas ! alas ! we cannot tell him. Be- 
tween his intellect — more full of the 
wholesome spirit of inquiry than that of 
half our human pupils — and our own, 
there is no medium of communication 
which suffices to let the knowledge he 
seeks pass from us to him ; and so the lit- 
tle eager gaze dies away at la*t in inevita- 
ble disappointment. The same dog who 
will display such curiosity as this (and I 
not only " have met," but possess one fairly 
eaten up with it), will also hunt out in the 
woods every odd creature, and study it for 
half an hour together. Twice my dog has 

discovered the caterpillars of the goat- 
moth, and she is constantly to be found 
seated gravely before a humble-bee, an 
earthworm, or a slug, deliberately watch- 
ing its movements, and occasionally (I re- 
gret to Bay) accelerating them by means 
of a certain sharp experimental scratch 
with her paw. A railway train, seen for 
the first time, running across a distant val- 
ley, filled her with astonishment ; and after 
ingeniously running round a projecting 
hill-side, so as to watch it again after it 
had passed behind it, she came back to me 
with the question speaking in every ges- 
ture, " What was that wonderful thing ? " 
For a cli Id of three times her age to dis- 
play similar thirst for knowledge would be 
to hold out the promise of a new Hum- 

Lastly (for this sort of contrast might 
be drawn out ad infinitum), our dogs dis- 
play their affection towards us in the most 
curiously- varied modes. As a rule, do;xs, 
having no language to supplement their 
caresses, are of course more demonstrative 
than human beings ; but if the master do 
not respond to the demonstration, the 
finer-natured dog retreats Into himself, and 
(as is the case with the colleys of most 
shepherds) lives a life of devotion, and 
sometimes dies of despair on his master's 
grave, but never tells his love by so much 
as a lick of the hand. There are great va- 
rieties &lso, In the manner in which dogs 
will display their feelings even to a person 
who encourages their caresses. There are 
horrid little pampered beasts who obvi- 
ously like to be stroked, not as a token of 
affection, but because it pleasantly rubs 
their tight skins, and who would as soon 
be shampooed by a hairdresser as caressed 
by their foolish mistress. When the strok- 
ing ceases they turn round imperiously, 
" Go on, I say," and scratch viciously till 
the process be renewed, or they are turned 
out of the room. The dog who really 
loves his master delights in mere propin- 
quity, likes to lie down on the floor resting 
against his feet, better than on a cushion a 
yard away, and, after a warm interchange 
of caresses for two or three minutes, asks 
no more, and subsides quietly in perfect 
contentment. That a short tender touch 
of the dog's tongue to hand or face corre- 
sponds exactly, as an expression of his 
feelings, to our kisses of. affection, there 
can be no sort of doubt. All dogs kiss the 
people they love in this way by instinct, 
and sometimes have curious little individ- 
ual fancies about the way they do it. My 
own dog, as a tiny puppy, took a fancy 
thus to kiss or bite my ear; and being 



ftolen and k)6t for nine weeks while too 
young dearly to remember me, this pro- 
pensity enabled me to identify her most 
latfe&ctorily on her restoration. The 
scene was exceedingly exciting. The 
Claimant, for whom a large reward had 
jost been paid, stood in the middle of the 
court, while various witnesses deposed in 
her favour. The first said she was the 
Terr image of the lost puppy, only grown 
much more stoat. The second swore that 
*be had cut a lock of her hair behind the 
ears; and showed the place where appar- 
ently the hair had not yet fully grown again. 
The third deposed that the Claimant had 
proved that 6ho knew her way at once to 
ser own old kennel and to the kitchen. 
Hie fourth witness — most valuable of all, 
as probably inaccessible to prejudice — 
was the old cat, who recognized the dog 
distinctly, while the new cat set up his 
back at her unhesitatingly as an utter 
stranger. But witnesses on the other side 
gave different testimony. One remarked 
that the original puppy had a black nose, 
whereas the nose of this dog was indisput- 
ably mottled. Another doubted that the 
delicate young silky-haired creature we had 
known could ever have developed into the 
present rather loutish individual ; and ve- 
hemently disputed the test of the shaven 
lock of hair which, it was urged, did not 
certainly show signs of having ever been 
eat. All this time the Claimant made no 
sign. She did not seem to know her mis- 
tress, to whom she had been exceedingly 
attached, but stood looking doubtfully 
from one person to another. Impatient 
to decide the case, I observed, " I do not 
think it is my dog; but if it be, she will 
remember her old trick." Singular to say, 
the memory of the young creature, which 
my appearance and voice had failed to re- 
call, came back in a moment, when brought 
dose to my face, and, in a rapture of re- 
cognition, she immediately caught hold of 
the lobe of my ear, and gave it the identi- 
cal little gentle bite she had been wont to 
do two months before, and which she nev- 
er gave to anybody else. After this, all 
doubts vanished, and Yama resumed her 
place in the affections of her family. 

Of course the return of a master after 
absence is the crucial occasion in which a 
dog's love is displayed. It is impossible 
for°u3,who so rarely embark our whole 
heart's longings in a single affection, and 
who receive news by every mail from ab- 
sent dear ones, to conceive the feelings of 
an animal whose entire being is swallowed 
up in attachment to his master, and to 
whom that master's absence is a severance 

complete as death, and who then, when in 
evitably wholly unprepared, hears the dear 
voice and beholds again the form he adores, 
suddenly restored. If the absence have 
been long, and the. dog's affection of the 
more concentrated kind, he sometimes dies, 
like Argus, of the shock, and always he is 
powerfully affected. A young and lively 
dog will leap a score of times to kiss his 
master's face, but an older one will gener- 
ally cling to him in silent ecstasy, and per- 
haps suffer serious physical derangement, 
like a human being who has passed through 
an over-exciting scene. A toy-terrier be- 
longing to Mrs. Sumner Gibson was twioe 
violently sick from joy at restoration to 
his mistress ; and the Rev. C. Evans, Rec- 
tor of Solihull, Birmingham, has had the 
goodness to send me an instance in which 
this physical shock took the extraordinary 
form of a regular swoon or fainting fit: — 
" In June last" (1872), he says, " a beauti- 
ful black and tan terrier followed us home 
from the neighbourhood of Stoneleigh. He 
remained with us one week, the pet of the 
whole house, and apparently very fond of 
us. At the end of that time we discovered 
his owner, at the sight of whom the dog 
sprang up in delight, and then swooned 
away, and lay as if dead for the space of 
two minutes, when, having been sprinkled 
with water, he revived." " 

Much of the variety apparent in the 
character of dogs no doubt results from the 
behaviour of their owners. Not only do 
people reflect their peculiarities on their 
dogs in a mysterious fashion, but they live 
with them on wholly different terms and 
in different relationships. A dog is an idol 
in one family, a friend in another, a slave 
in a third. Busy people spare only a mo- 
ment now and then to bestow a hasty pat 
on the poor brute who is hungering for 
affection. Philanthropists mostly treat 
him with a distant and condescending be- 
nevolence, to the last degree offensive to 
his feelings; and both gushing and mis- 
anthropic folks make a fool of him, to his 
ill concealed disgust, by lavishing more 
endearments thau he cares to return. 
In some houses an absolute despotism 
is the established form of government. 
The dog is allowed no motu propria what- 
ever, and discipline is enforced by terrible 
penalties, of which it is dreadful to speak. 
Other people live with their dogs in a re- 
publican manner, or what the Vril Ya 
would call a " Koom Posh," and the dog 
does that which is pleasant in his own eyes, 
and generally unpleasant in those of unfor- 
tunate visitors. In such cases the owner 
of the animal is merely considered in the 



light of a well-intentioned officer of state, 
appointed to attend to the commissariat 
and other matters connected with the dog's 
comfort nnd well-being. If he fulfil his 
duty, well and good ; thewiog will be pleased 

? graciously to accept the attentions off Ted. 
f he neglect it, then the ill-used q;nd. uped 
will "know the reason why." Undoubt- 
ed!? botli these extremes are evil, and no 
constitution less beautifully balanced than 
that of the British Empire can adjust the 
nice relationships of dogs and men, reserv- 
ing the rights of all, and securing the 
greatest happiness of the greatest number. 
Worst of all are those oligarchies where 
several of the upper class (as I suppose we 
must call the men) divide the government. 
No dog can serve two wasters, much less 
three or four masters and mistresses; and 
his proper feeling* of allegiance and devo- 
tion are destroyed by placing him in so 
unnatural a position, analogous only to 
the polyandry practised in .Thibet. And, 
on the other hand, for one human being to 
keep several do^s at one 3 (real pet house- 
dog?, not poor slaves of the kennel-harem), 
is a violation of what the Germans would 
call the root-idea of the relation. When 
one dog is dead, after a reasonable inter- 
val the widowed owner may, without vio- 
lation of decency, take to himself another 
canine companion. But polydoggery is a 
thing against which all proper feeling re- 
volts, and the Mormon establishments in 
which it is permitted are necessarily scenes 
of permanent rivalry and discord. Every 
dog would, if it oould, compel its master 
to adopt the old knightly motto, with slight 
variation — 

Ung Roy, ung Loy, nog Chien. 

But of all the current mistakes about 
dogs, the most exasperating is the vulgar 
delusion that they have no faults, that all 
their virtues are mere matters of course ; 
and that we may expect every dog to be 
magnanimous and courageous, as we ex- 
pect a table to be firm, or a drawer to 
open and shut. The grand Wattsian aph- 
orism, " It is their nature to" exhausts the 
popular philosophy of the subject, and the 
meanest cad will pat a dog condescend- 
ingly on the head for an act of heroism 
which he could not himself perform to 
save a drowning universe. To understand 
how good are dogs, it is absolutely neces- 
sary (as Hegel would tell us) to recognize 
also their badness. We must see that the 
" best of dogs has his faults," if we would 
appreciate the merits which redeem from 
absolute contempt even the most pusillani- 
mous cur. I have used the word " faults," 

but I am not sure that we might not 
equally properly Bpeak of the crimes of 
dogs, for the turpitude of some of their 
actions certainly surpasses mere failure in 
justice or benevolence. There are traitor 
dog 3 who have basely accepted bribes of 
raw meat and remained silent when it was 
their imperative duty as sentinel* to chal- 
lenge the intruder with the loudest of barks. 
Moroseness, and eveu malignity of temper, 
have betrayed many an animal, otherwise 
deserving of moral approval, into deeds of 
violence and murderous attacks ou rivals; 
and the lawless brigandage of others in the 
matter of their neighbour.*' bone* is almost 
too common a transgression to be noticed. 
Even real estate (in kennel property) is 
disregarded by Borne marauders, who will 
hold " adverse possession" against the 
rightful- owner upon 

The good oU plan 
That they may take who have the power. 
And they may keep who oaa. 

Others, again, set aside every. recognized 
principle of treaties and friendly alliances. 
Among the " dogs whom I have met " was 
one of this kind, an Italian bandit, tall, 
fierce, and muscular, who lived on a spur 
of the Apennines. After paying him a 
respectful greeting at the mouth of his 
own den in a Tuscan farmyard, I had been 
conversing with his mistress for half-an- 
hour, when Vendetta (such are the hideous 
names Italians* give to their dogs !) stole 
up behind me and took my leg in his enor- 
mous jaws, with a crunch not soon to be 
banished from a retentive memory. Worse 
than such ordinary traitorous acts was 
that of a dog of whom I have heard, whose 
heart, previously full of the milk of canine 
kindness, had been turned to gall by be- 
holding the caresses lavished on a toy- 
terrier newly acquired 'by the family in 
whose affections the hardy mastiff had 
hitherto reigned supreme and alone. From 
the reports furnished me of the judicial 
inquiry which followed the crime (and to 
which only the genius of M. Gaboriau 
could do adequate justice), it seems thnt 
the little dog was missed for several days, 
and his abseuce bewailed, while something 
in the demeanour of the big dog suggested 
to all beholders that some terrible tragedy 
had occurred, and that Leo was darkly 
privy thereto. At length a servant ap- 
proaching the coal-hole fancied she heard 
a faint moan of anguish from the depths 
of that dreary receptacle, and, a light be- 
ing procured, the miserable little toy- 
terrier was found well-nigh buried under 
the ooals, and quite unable to extrioate 



himself or even to move his limbs. 
Whether the vindictive Leo had actually 
earned his pony rival into the hole, and 
scratched an avalanche of coals over him, 
or that Tiny had somehow managed to 
involve himself in snch a trap, it was 
equally obvious from Leo's behaviour that 
be was quite aware of what had befallen 
his rival, and that he lacked the gener- 
osity to deliver him, or even to draw at- 
tention to his deplorable case. The old 
Egyptian law, which punished as murder- 
ers in the second degree men who witness- 
ed a murder and did nothing to prevent it, 
would undoubtedly have fallen heavily on 
inch a dog ; nor can we deny (though it is 
s dreadful thing to say of a dog,) that 
Leo was almost as bad as the people who 
see wives beaten to death ana never call 
the police, much less stir a finger to help 

With endless facts such are these, prov- 
ing the occasional wickedness of dogs, it is 
amazing to think how so many people per- 
sist in talking of dogs as if their natures 
were all on a dead level, and it were quite 
a matter of course that every individual 
should display all the virtues set down in 
books of natural history as distinguishing 
"the dog." Bless their souls 1 (or what- 
ever does duty for a dog's soul), the dear 
brutes are a thousand times more lovable 
and interesting than any such pieces of 
moral clock-work. In the hope of awaken- 
ing some readers to a better comprehen- 
sion, I shall endeavour to describe, — not 
the intellectual achievements of dogs, of 
which we have all heard bo much, — but 
the moral characters of a few " dogs whom 
I have met." Though I can not boast of 
the acquaintance of any animals whom Mr. 
Galton would consider as Illustrious Dogs, 
I have been permitted to associate with 
two or three which might aspire to the 
rank of Eminent, and I would fain hope 
that the privilege has not been altogether 
wasted. No doubt every reader who has 
possessed and studied dogs will be able to 
parallel, or perhaps surpass, the little bio- 
graphical sketches I propose to offer. But, 
for the purpose of refuting the absurd and 
misleading delusions of the dogless multi- 
tude, I trust my slight but faithful delinea- 
tions of genuine canine character may be 

To corroborate my assertion of the 
occasional wickedness of dogs, I shall 
begin by a brief memoir of a really atro- 
cious scoundrel named Lin togs. In this 
animal's disposition vindictiveness and 
treachery were the only Btable character- 
istics. Possibly he had been maltreated 


at an early period of life, or his ancestors 
before him might have been ill-governed ; 
but, however this may be, the result was 
as I have stated. Of gratitude he often 
made great outward demonstration, but 
bitter malice and vengeance lurked in the 
recesses of his heart. Lintogs was a great 
hulking Irish terrier, with a rough yellow 
coat, a coarse prognathous jaw, and an eye 
which never met that of an honest man. 
His manners were cringing in the extreme, 
and he fawned on his master, especially at 
meal times, in an exaggerated way ; but I 
have little doubt that, on small provoca- 
tion, he would have "tumbled" him from 
behind a hedge, were doss permitted the 
use of firearms. Lintogs habitually treas- 
ured up any injury done to him and 
"bided his time." With my own eyes I 
Baw him bite a poor old labourer who, a 
month before, had punished him for steal- 
ing his dinner, ana against whom, in the 
interval, the cautious cur had refrained 
from betraying any unfriendly seutiment. 
The labourer, with three or four comrades, 
was carrying the heavy trunk of a tree, 
and bending under its weight : of course 
unable either to defend himself or to pur- 
sue an aggressor. At that propitious 
moment the miserable Lintogs ran up and 
fastened his teeth deep into the calf of the 
poor fellow's leg, with a snarl of delight 
which bespoke the gratification of long- 
husbanded passion. Nor was vindictive- 
neSs the only evil quality of that degraded 
brute. His master having reason to sus- 
pect that thieves came about his house, 
and that Lintogs was an untrustworthy 
guardian, went one night quietly and 
without a candle into his kitchen, where 
the dog slept as sentinel. Obviously Lin- 
togs failed to recognize, his master iu his 
dressing-gown, and took him for an in- 
truder ; and equally obviously he acted on 
Dogberry's principle of" allowing a thief to 
show himself such," and steal away. Lin- 
togs, with his tail between his legs, noise- 
lessly retired into the scullery to leave the 
coast clear, and would, doubtless, have re- 
marked (as is common in such cases), that 
" the office of an ' informer ' was one to 
which he could not condescend." The end 
of this bad dog might afford a solemn warn- 
ing to other curs could the lesson be con- 
veyed to them. His generally indulgent 
master, exasperated at length by Lintogs* 
thefts, exclaimed one day, like Henry II., 
"Who will rid me of this pestilent fel- 
low ? " The servants, who disliked the 
animal (and it speaks volumes against 
either a dog or servants, when an entente 
cordiaU does not exist between them), took 



their master at his word, and availed them- 
selves of his absence to put poor Lin togs 
in a sack and drown him in the river. 
When the master learned what had hap- 
pened he was angry enough with the as- 
sassins, but we are not informed that he 
thought fit to undergo any penance at the 
scene of the murder. 

Of a wholly different type of character 
was the small red cocker, u Begum." Her 
besetting sin was worldliness. She had 
what foreigners call la maladie Anglaise of 
over-reverence for rank, and had she been 
a lady, would have probably chosen Sir 
Bernard Burke's publications as her fa- 
vourite studies. As it was, she contrived 
to make out in a large household the rela- 
tive dignities in the domestic hierarchy, 
and, from a very early period, was ob- 
served always to forsake toe society of the 
under-housemaid for that of the upper ser- 
vants, and to quit the most engaging foot- 
man when the butler invited her company. 
Above-stairs she knew perfectly the de- 
gree of respect of persons which les con- 
venances required, and of course paid de- 
voted court to the stately old Squire, after 

tea carried on in that apartment. One 
animal, however, was admitted to the 
privelege of Begum's friendship: a beau- 
tiful, mild, flaxen-haired Pomeranian of 
her own Bex, who, having only three 
available legs, displayed the gentler man- 
ners of a confirmed invalid. After every 
separation, when the Pomeranian had en- 
joyed a drive, or Begum had followed the 
Squire to the woods, the two dogs rushed 
into each other's paws, rubbed their 
noses with cordial affection, and then lay 
down side by side, resting against one an- 
other. Several times in her long and re- 
spected career, Begum became the joyful 
mother of puppies, and on all such inter- 
esting occasions her friend Rip (or Mrs. 
Gamp, as she came to be called) presided 
over the nursery, slept beside the mother 
in her temporary seclusion, exhibited the 
" little strangers " to visitors with sympa- 
thetic pride, and partook with moderation 
of the caudle prepared for the invalid. 
Strange to say, when the poor nurse her- 
self was dying, and her sorrowing mistress 
brought Begum to cheer her, the worldli- 
ness of Begum reasserted itself; and (a* 

whom she trotted about the stables and J always happens with Mammon-worship- 

farmyard with an air of veneration. It 
was by no means everybody, however, to 
whom Begum would condescend to be af- 
fable. A frequent visitor of the Squire 
(who was rather supposed to come on 
pressing pecuniary emergencies) was de- 
testable in the opinion of the dog, and in- 
deed of a good many other people. In 
vain did this gentleman praise and coax 
the "nice dog," of whom the Squire was 
so fond, and call her affectionately, " Poor 
old Begum," " Good old dog." If he ven- 
tured to stroke her, his fingers were imme- 
diately severely bitten, and wherever he 
walked with his host, a running accom- 
paniment of a bass growl bore testimony 
that at least one of the party disapproved 
of his society. 

Towards her own species Begum was 
usually somewhat haughty and reserved. 
It was not for her, with her aspirations 
after high society, to associate freely with 
the rabble of setters and pointers who 
lived in the back slums of the kennels; 
and, as to the greyhounds, their aristo- 
cratic appearance was balanced by a want 
of polish in their address to small lady 
dogs which rendered them offensive. When 
the keepers released these rude creatures 
preparatory to exercise, Begum, instead 
of joining the party, always retired into 
the housekeeper's room, and reposed 
against any silk-dressed lady's-maid who 
might be sharing the perpetual libation of 

pers) she forsook her friend in her extrem- 
ity, leaped over her prostrate form and 
rushed out of the stable never to return. 

With these dogs resided another, who 
displayed — as is not uncommon in her 
sex — graces of person rather than gifts 
of intellect or force of character. She 
was, in fact, that sweet thing a weak- 
minded female ; a black and tan Spaniel, 
with exquisite raven hair and large soft 
eyes of a languishing description. Of 
course she was greatly cherished by the 
gentlemen of the family and very foud of 
their society ; but on one occasion, for no 
assignable reason, Lily proved fanciful, 
and deolined an invitation to go out wit* 
a shooting-party. On being pressed to 
follow her friends, who needed her to put 
up game, the dog ran away from them and 
hid nerself in one of the servants' rooms 
with singular demonstrations of terror. A 
gamekeeper to whom she was attached at 
last dislodged her forcibly from under a 
sofa and carried her out. Once in the 
field the animal recovered spirits and ran 
about as eagerly as usual, putting up rab- 
bits. But the first shot which was fired 
missed its aim and struck her in the heart, 
and poor Lily was brought back dead to 
the room she had been so loth to quit an 
hour before. 

Sly was a dog whose devotion resembled 
that of Caleb to the Bavenswood family, 
uniting stern fidelity with extreme surli- 



Demand incorruptible integrity with an 
inconvenient determination to have things 
arranged according to her judgment in- 
stead of that of her nominal mistress. A 
widow lady of great wealth and masculine 
ability, the friend in former years of Con- 
dorcet and Madame de Stael, fell into a 
state of apathetic depression on the death 
of her husband. She had no children, and 
resided in a large country-house near the 
sea, in preference to her more cheerful 
abode in Eaton Square. To rouse her 
from her despair her physician bethought 
himself of presenting ner with the very 
ugliest, roughest, most ill-tempered yellow- 
sod-white terrier which could possibly 
have been discovered* Never was a more 
unladylike pet, but Sly proved an intense 
comfort to the old lady, towards whom 
she displayed an attachment best described 
as ferocious. When Mrs. E. once attempt- 
ed to kiss a young friend, Sly started up 
from her slumbers on the rug with a roar 
which sounded like an oath, and tore off 
the poor old lady's cap and dishevelled her 
white hair, before anybody could guess 
what was the matter. On other occasions, 
when she sat down to play an overture of 
her favourite Sebastian Bach, Sly always 
leaped on the grand piano, ran up and 
down the case in a fury, and finally glared 
over the music-book and barked peremp- 
torily till the performance was abandoned. 
Of course visitors at the house fared worse 
than the mistress. Sly constituted her- 
self constable of the drawing-room, and 

lations of fondness and despair. A few 
days afterwards, on the day of the funeral, 
Sly, and six other dogs who lived about 
the house and offices, all displayed un- 
equivocal signs of madness, and were en- 
closed in the stable-yard and shot down 
by the servants from the windows over- 
looking it. One young dog only escaped 
by leaping the gate or the yard, and this 
animal ran through a neighbouring park 
and bit three cows grazing in it, who all 
exhibited shortly afterwards tokens of hy- 
drophobia, and were shot in the writer's 
presence by the police. 
The epitaph on the gentleman who 

Lived and died a true Christian; 

He loved his friends and hated his enemies — 

might be justly dedicated to the memory 
of Nip, a dog with whom I had the privi- 
lege of intimacy for years, and whose char- 
acter I specially commend to the study of 
those benighted persons who talk of " the 
dog " being this or that, as they talk of 
the qualities of birch-wood or mahogany. 
" Intense " was the only word in the lan- 
guage to describe Nip. From her puppy- 
hooa she seemed to have taken to heart 
the principle of doing with all her might 
whatever her paws or teeth found to do. 
There was neither lukewarmness about 
her feelings nor hesitation about her ac- 
tions. The M polarization of the affec- 
tions " was, in her case, complete. At the 
pole of adoration was her mistress, and at 
that of detestation all persons and beasts 

followed suspiciously any guest who might and things whom her suspicious little 
move about it. A touch to her mistress's mind could imagine to be either her mis- 

book or writing materials brought forth a 
warning growl ; but the matter grew seri- 
ous if the unwary stranger approached the 
tea-chest. Sly, who had a passion for 
sugar, clearly considered the receptacle of 
the precious lumps as the great treasury 
of the house. The poor 'beast's love for 
her mistress, however, far exceeded all her 
other sentiments. Mrs. £. having re- 
turned home unexpectedly from a long 
absence, (when can such events be other- 
wise than unexpected to a dog?) Sly very 
■early lost her life from joy, and did lose 
s litter of puppies. After long years the 
lady died abroad, and her body was 
brought to her house enclosed in a leaden 
coffin and placed on trestles in her library, 
la some inscrutable manner the strange, 
pall-covered object conveyed to the dog 
the fact that her beloved mistress lay 
within, and (as I was informed by several 
eye-witnesses of the scene) the poor brute 
jelled with agony, and leaped again and 

tress's foes or her own rivals. The 
charity-child whom the clergyman asked 
what it loved most and feared most, and 
who gave the disheartening response to the 
first question, " wittles," and to the sec- 
ond "twoads," fell far behind the level of 
Nip's sentiments, for she cared little for 
" wittles," and feared neither u twoads n 
nor much more perilous creatures, attack- 
ing, on one occasion, a huge polecat and 
demolishing him on the spot, and habitu- 
ally bullying an enormous bulldog six 
times her own size, of ferocious aspect, but 
inwardly benign disposition. Nip herself 
was a beautiful little bull-terrier, pure 
white, with a black nose, exquisitely deli- 
cate limbs, and a little face whose mobile 
features expressed emotions as readily as 
a human countenance. Of course her ears 
were uncut — her mistress was no barba- 
rian to mutilate nature's work — and their 
varieties of attitude transformed her ex- 
pression from an affected and ostentatious 

nnoai the coffin with piteous gestiou- 1 meekness under censure to a martial en- 



thusiasm, suggestive of the Marseillaise, at 
the bare mention of a rat. In the various 
wars in which she was engaged, these 
same pretty* ears, however, become terri- 
bly torn, and more than once presented 
rather the appearance of a bleeding fringe 
than of a piece of white flesh. As she ad- 
vanced in years, and also in pugnacity, her 
honourable scars multiplied, till, finally, 
her little eager face was all spotted with 
them, and one ear remained permanently 
pendent, the muscle which should have 
erected it having been bitten through by 
the enemy. Nevertheless, with the bright 
brown eyes, speaking volumes of love and 
devotion (or, as the case might be, of 
courage and fury), and the wide-awake 
aspect of the whole creature, from the 
ever-moving nose to the tip of the oscil- 
lating tail, Nip was worthy of Landseer's 
best skill, and the heart of the British 
workman was always so affected by her 
oharms, that the words "nice dawg" 
might be heard repeated by every group 
of bricklayer* she passed going home from 
work of an evening. 

Professionally, Nip was a rat-catcher ; 
and on the first occasion when she ap- 
peared on the stage, she is recorded to 
have destroyed thirteen rats in thirty-six 
seconds in a rat-pit; a considerable 
achievement for a novice in that unpleasant 
kind of public entertainment. To the end 
of her career, though transformed into a 
lady's companion (like the cat in the 
Arabian Nights turned into a woman), Nip 
never ceased to display a fervent profes- 
sional interest in the objects of her origi- 
nal pursuit. The mere whisper of the 
word " Rats ! " roused her from the sound- 
est repose, and her friends, who did not 
desire to invoke an immediate storm of 
barking, were compelled to speak enigmat- 
ically to each other of " those rodents " 
when an allusion to such animals became 

To say that Nip had a resolute will 
would be feebly to express the tenacity of 
her volitions. To sit on somebody's lap 
or on a particular chair, to go in or out of 
the door, to roll herself in a new silk dress, 
— if Nip had taken these things into her 
little bullet-head, no power save that of 
her mistress could do anything in the mat- 
ter. A score of times rebuffed, she re- 
turned perse veringly to the charge till she 
gained her object. Discovering once a 
water-rat in a hole under the bank of a 
brook, Nip spent days viciously watching 
the hole, and was with difficulty lured 
Home to her meals, after each of which she 
was seen trotting off again to lay siege to 

the fortress as before. Having seized a 
ball or similar object in her teeth, heaven 
and earth might sooner come asunder than 
Nip's jaws. Frequently i have held her 
up by such a ball, then swung her round 
more and more rapidly, till finally Nip's 
body and tail stuck out at right angles, 
like spokes of a wheel, whilst I performed 
half-a-dozen gyrations. On one occasion, 
walking through a kitchen-garden, the 
owner called attention to a tank filled to 
the brim with liquid manure. Nip of 
course stood intently observing with the 
rest of the company on the brink, when at 
this unlucky moment, a bubble surged up 
to the surface of the horrid vat. Instantly 
Nip not only leaped mentally to the con- 
clusion that the bubble was caused by a 
rat, but also leaped bodily into the tank 
to catch it; and for one awful moment 
sank before our eyes into the witches' 
cauldron and was covered by the waves of 
abomination. The next minute her little 
white head rose above the surface, and, 
half choked with ammonia, she was 
snatched from destruction and held for 
ten minutes under a fortunately-adjacent 
pump. Again, another time, she was 
caught by a steel trap, when her leg was 
severely hurt ; but the effect of such pain- 
ful experience was simply to make Nip's 
pluck rise to the boiling-point, and she 
fiercely worried and barked at the trap, 
biting the steel savagely with her teeth. 

Nevertheless, like many other heroes 
and heroines overflowing with physical 
courage, Nip was abjectly superstitious 
and ready to grovel with terror in the 
presence of anything inexplicable to her 
mind. An india-rubber cushion filled or 
emptied of air in her presence, or a bel- 
lows blown in her face, sent her into par- 
oxysms of hysterical screaming, and a 
monkey-skin hung against a wall she re- 
garded with such looks as a man might 
turn on a ghost. The most dreadful of 
all objects, however, in Nip's opinion, was 
the garden-hose. Whether she took the 
long tube for a snake or not I cannot say, 
but the appearance of the fearful imple- 
ment was on all occasions the signal for 
Nip instantly to shrink out of sight, nor 
would any persuasion induce her to remain 
in the room where it was usually kept. 
Strange to say, another dog, who has none 
of Nip's courage in other matters, and is 
herself extremely superstitious about 
Btumpsand stones in the woods, has never 
viewed this same hose in a supernatural 
light, but runs frantically to attack the 
water when it squirts from it, barking and 
biting at the stream, and of course getting" 



herself drenched, time after time. Who 
shall say that we have not here evidence 


both oT the existence of the faculty of Im- 
agination and of its entirely various action 
in the minds of two animals ? 

When her mistress went to Rome one 
winter, Nip spent several days in restless 
misery, looking for her everywhere. Then, 
apparently she resolved, in a resentful sort 
of way, to make the best of an evil and 
ungrateful world, and take her walks with 
her mistress's friend. By degrees she 
teemed to grow attached to this friend, 
and occasionally honoured her with a 
cordial carets. But the very hour her 
mistress returned she abjured the friend's 
affection and authority with contumely, 
and once more became absorbed in her 
lawful homage and devotion. Anything 
like that' devotion I never witnessed in a 
dog. The creature's whole nature seemed 
to be drawn upward like a needle by a 
magnet, and her perfect obedience to her 
slightest signal from eye or voice was as 
wonderful as her wilfulness where any one 
else was concerned. Of course Nip was a 
well-edacated dog, and knew how to Beg, 
to Trust, and to Faint ; the three canine 
accomplishments corresponding to the 
'learned R.'s among human beings. I re- 
gret that veracity compels me to add that 
towards her own species her behaviour was 
far from exemplary. At one time she 
kept a Humble Companion, and maltreated 
her like any fine lady. Poor Blackie was 
found starving in Eaton Square in a long 
frost and with a hideous wound, obviously 
caused by some red-hot iron instrument, 
all across her shoulders. The little crea- 
ture, a slender animal, half toy-terrier, 
half Italian greyhound, had suffered so 
much at the hands of cruel men that it 
was almost impossible for me to catch her. 
A bribe of a shilling to a loitering police- 
man merely induced that sublime function- 
ary to stalk solemnly along the resound- 
ing pavement in Blackie's supposed direc- 
tion, while that forlorn little brute was 
rawing like the wind to the other end of 
the long enclosure. Another shilling 
offered to a street-boy produced quite an 
opposite effect, for, with a whoop and a 
»ar-cry t there were instantaneously half-a- 
dozen little scamps on the track at full 
speed down the square. Jumping into a 
hansom, 1 pursued the chase in the rear of 
my pack, and somewhere among Grosvenor 
Gardens bad the satisfaction of seeing 
poor little Blackie hemmed in and cower- 
ing in a doorway. Of course the terrors 
of the little brute disappeared the moment 
it felt my caress, and was hoisted into my 

cab and conveyed home ; and equally, of 
course, in ten minutes after the adminis- 
tration of food and water, she was ready 
to defend her new premises against any 
invaders. Sometimes Nip condescended 
to play with this waif of society, notwith- 
standing her obscure antecedents; but 
more frequently she behaved towards her 
with unchristian haughtiness and even 
spite, till at last the worm turned, and 
Blackie fought it out with her oppressor 
before their kennels one night in the gar- 
den. The night chanced to be rainy ; and 
all that is known of the battle is. that next 
morning both dogs were found covered 
with gore and gravel ; Nip a greyish pink, 
and Blackie a mixture of black and red, 
like a half-boiled lobster, hideous to behold. 
Another dog, who lived on more equal 
terms with Nip, and with whom she some- 
times played for hours on the grass, was 
nevertheless an object of bitter jealousy. 
When Hajjin rushed barking with ecstasy 
to the door at which she heard her own 
mistress's knock, Nip, who was perfectly 
indifferent to that lady's comings and go- 
ings, habitually rushed out of her den 
(disgusted, like a Saturday Reviewer, that 
anybody should presume to enjoy anything 
she did not care for) and frequently suc- 
ceeded in changing poor Hajjin's shrieks i 
of delight into a yell of pain, by giving 
her a bite before the door could be opened. 
As to her young offspring, Nip performed 
her duties towards them in a severe and 
perfunctory manner, clearly showing that 
it was not on a blind puppy her affections 
could be lavished. Just before her sole 
surviving offspring (a son and heir named 
Sting) was born, a whole swarm of bees 
fastened tipon Nip and stung her in a fear- 
ful manner. She merely screamed defiance 
and called to her mistress for aid, which 
being immediately rendered (at the cost 
of course of a dozen stings), Nip express- 
ed herself satisfied, and forbore to. utter 
any lamentations over her cruel sufferings. 
So lived Nip for many years — a dog of 
chequered character, with strong lights 
and shades, capable of rising to the heights 
of martyrdom or of descending into the 
gulf of crime ! A creature like this could 
be an object of indifference only to people 
incapable of conceiving moral qualities ex- 
cept in human form, or of loving anything 
unless it wore a coat or a petticoat. There 
was as mueh in Nip to praise and to blame, 
to regret and to cherish, as any ordinary 
acquaintance reveals to us in man or wo- 
man in a lifetime ; and there is always this 
difference with regard to a dog and a hu- 
man being, that we see the dog's character 



pur et simple, such as nature made it, whilst 
we see the man's or woman's through a 
thick crust of conventionality, and perhaps 
not once in a year get a glimpse of the 
real John or Jane behind the veil. When 
we d> catch a full sight of a human heart 
in its anguish or joy, temptation or tri- 
umph, of course we love it beyond any- 
thing we can feel for a lesser nature. Even 
when it is a wicked heart, the revelation 
stirs us to the depth of our being with 
pity, terror, perchance with a reflection of 
a lurid light into depths of our own souls. 
" Nothing human is alien to us." But then 
it must be the real human passion, not the 
dreary fiction of a sentiment — pretence 
of care for what the speaker cares nothing, 
of pleasure in what he does not enjoy, of 
hopes, loves, fears, interests, admirations, 
all second-hand and half-affected if not ab- 
solutely unreal, which make up the staple 
of social intercourse. Now, with our hum- 
ble dog, there is none of all this. Every- 
thing in him is genuine to the heart's core, 
and, so far as his nature goes, we reach 
him at once, and love him at once. And 
so Nip was beloved and made happy for 
all her little span ; and when the end came, 
she lay through the long, sad, winter's 
night in the lap of the mistress she loved 
so dearly, with her eyes fixed upon hers, 
forbearing to moan as if on purpose to 
save her pain, and still gazing on and on 
motionless, till, before the dawn, the glaze 
of death came over the bright brown eyes, 
and the warm, true little heart grew still. 
No movement, no withdrawal of attention 
marked the last moment. Grazing up 
straight into the face which was her heaven, 
she died. 

I have said there are dogs capable of 
ascending to the heights of martyrdom, 
and surely there are many whose lives are 
inspired by the purest self-sacrificing love, 
and who die (in their simple unconscious 
way) real martyrs to the cruelty of men. 
Mr. Motley, in his History of the Nether- 
lands, tells a wonderful story of a Hugue- 
not flying for his life, pursued by a soldier 
of Alva. The Huguenot ran at last upon 
a frozen river, over which he had nearly 
passed in safety, when he heard the soldier 
behind him in his heavy armour crash 
through the ice. The fugitive actually 
turned round and saved his pursuer, who 
thereupon seized him, and led him back to 
the Catholic authorities, by whom he was 
shortly consigned to the stake. It was no 
wonder they burned him! Such a man 
might have converted the world to his 
faith. Here was, in truth, the absolute 
embodiment in action of that great Chris- 

tian Idea which first found utterance on 
the Mount of Galilee. But how often has 
not the slow, cold heart of marl been 
rebuked by the display of the same self- 
sacrificing love for the unkind and the 
unmerciful by the poor humble brutes ever 
since the far-off time when the dog first 
attached himself to primeval man? How 
many dogs are there now in the world 
who for ever return blows and ill-treatment 
with devoted service, and who would in an 
instant leap into fire or water to save the 
man who the moment before had been 
kicking or scourging them ? Of course it 
is common to slur over all the stories of 
such magnanimity when it is a dog who 
has been the hero, with that stupid word 
"Instinct." But if we analyze what we 
mean by instinct in such a case we shall 
find that, if the act loses moral elevation 
by the absence of deliberative choice, it 
gains almost as much in lovableness by 
the simplicity and unconsciousness with 
which the grand self-sacrifice is achieved. 
It is not that a dog rushes blindly to death 
and danger. He knows just as well as a 
man does the risk he runs, and fears pain, 
and clings to existence as much as we. 
Bat, with him, love and generosity are so 
overpowering that he has no need to stand 
debating whether he shall give himself for 
another. It is the spontaneous wish of 
his fond heart to do so, and, without one 
hesitation of self-regardful pity, he per- 
forms the act for which saints and heroes 
fit themselves by a lifetime of virtue. 

I did not myself see — I am thankful I 
was spared — the sight once described to 
me by that great artist and tender-hearted 
man, John Gibson. He said that he was 
one day walking in Venice and came upon 
a crowd of men and boys engaged seem- 
ingly in some diversion. Presently he saw 
in what the " sport " consisted. A fine 
large dog, old and thin, was standing 
where he must have been driven, on a 
small islet of sand about twenty yards 
from the shore. The animal was of course 
entirely defenceless and shelterless, and 
the men were pelting it with large stones 
and broken bricks and pottery. When- 
ever one of these missiles hit the dog the 
crowd roared with laughter, all the more 
lively when the wound seemed serious, or 
the dog gave vent to a sudden cry of pain. 
It was not, however, making much moan 
in its misery. One leg was broken, one 
eye blinded, its body covered with bruises ; 
and obviously, by-and-by, perhaps after 
half-an-hour more, some stone more merci- 
ful than the rest might crush its brain. 
Meanwhile, the dog stood still and patient, 



looking pitifully and inquiringly at the 
nen who were jeering at its death agonies. 
"What hare I done?" (Gibson said it 
actually seemed to ask) — " what hare 
I done but lore and serve you all my life, 
that you should deal with me thus ? " 
But no one, save the gentle-hearted Eng- 
lishman, who could do nothing amid that 
•arage crowd, heeded what the dbg might 
have been in the paat or might be feeling 
now. Rather was it a special jest to see 
how mild the creature looked, how help- 
lessly he bore the pelting of the stones 
and shards. And so Gibson turned sor- 
rowfully away, and as he passed down the 
streets the shouts and laughter of the 
crowd still followed him — that laushter 
of fiends over suffering, which, alas 1 has 
rang in every land, and many and many a 
time has echoed over English fields, or 
down the Btreeta of English towns ; even 
ts we are told it did in Paris, when the 
lost retriever fetched the stick for the gen- 
darme, who therewith immediately knocked 
oat its brains. 

There are a few men who feel only for 
themselves. There are many who feel 
only for their own families and friends. 
Then come those who feel for their own 
class, their townsfolk or fellow-country- 
men. Of recent years, since the interests 
of men and women have seemed to be dis- 
tinguished from one another, it has become 
apparent that there are thousands who 
cannot thoroughly sympathize with the 
wants, sufferings, and wrongs of the oppo- 
site sex. Lastly, the power of feeling for 
animals, realising their wants, and making 
their pains our own, is one which is most 
irregularly shown by human beings. A 
Thnon may have it, and a Howard be de- 
void of it. A rough shepherd's heart may 
overflow with it, and that of an exquisite 
fine gentleman and distinguished man of 
science may be as utterly without it as 
the nether millstone. One thing, I think, 
most be clear : till a man has learned to 
feel for all his sentient fellow-creatures, 
whether in human or brutal form, of bis 
own class and sex and country, or of an- 
other, he has not yet ascended the first 
step towards the true civilization,. nor ap- 
plied the first lesson from the love of God. 

f. p. c. 

PA — While these pages have been passing 
through the press, two interesting anecdotes 
have been given to me concerning the Probity 
of Dogs. The first was related of a large dog 
kept in Algiers by Miss Emily Napier, daughter 
of Sir William Napier. This dog was sent every 

morning to fetch bread from the baker's, and 
regularly brought home twelve rolls in a basket 
At last it was observed that for several morn- 
ings there were only eleven rolls in the basket; 
and, on watching the dog, he was found to stop 
on his way and bestow one roll on a poor siok 
and starving lady-dog, hidden, with her pup- 
pies, in a corner, on the road from the shop. 
The baker was then instructed to pat thirteen 
rolls in the bisket, after which the dog delivered 
the twelve, faithfully, for a few days, and then 
left all thirteen in the basket — the token, as it 
proved, that his sick friend was convalescent, 
and able to dispense with his charity. 

The second story was taken down, about 1866, 
from the mouth of Professor Sedgewiok, of 

44 There is a clever old man living at Kendal, 
who possesses a dog called Charlie, and who has 
frequently been my companion in my geological 
researches in the north of England. On our 
retain to Kendal from one excursion the old 
man oame to my hotel to help to arrange the 
fossils we had collected, and Charlie came with 
him. During the whole process of arranging . 
the stones, Charlie sat by, gravely watohing us, 
sitting on his hind quarters, with a most sober 
and demure face; nor did he move till the col- 
leotioq was stowed into a bag and pat under my 
bed. He then went home with his master; but 
just as I was preparing to go to bed, I beard a 
scratching at the door, and there was Charlie, 
who darted in, ran under the bed, and remained 
there all night For the next few days nothing 
particular happened; and each night Charlie 
slept under my bed, till we arranged to start for 
another expedition, when Charlie was not to be 
found, and we set off without him. We made a 
tour of sixteen days, and arrived at Bowness on 
a Saturday. On Monday morning, when my 
old friend met me after a visit to hi* own house, 
he said, * Well, I have a strange history to tell 
you of Charlie. When I got home, I said to 
my wife, "Where's Charlie ? " "Charlie!" 
she replied, " why, hasn't Charlie been with 
you T " ' Upon this the old man went up to the 
inn, and inquired if anything had been seen of 
Charlie. But he had scarcely begun to speak, 
when Charlie himself came bounding towards 
him ; and the strange mystery of the dog's dis- 
appearance was explained. No one thought or 
knew anything about Charlie till the evening of 
his master's departure, when a traveller arriv- 
ing at the inn, was shown to the room which I 
had occupied. The moment the traveller and 
his conductor entered, Charlie rushed from un- 
der the bed and flew at them, so that they were 
in danger of being seriously hurt, and he could 
only be mastered by the ostler bringing a horse- 
cloth and throwing it completely over the dog; 
thus holding him down while they dragged from 
under the bed the precious bag of stones and 
placed it in the passage. As soon as this was 
done, the dog was set free, and instantly quietly 
took his place upon the bag, from which nothing 
could entice him. Occasionally, when he heard 



wheels in the yard below^ or any great move- 
ment, he would rush down, smell the carriages 
and surrey the horses; bat speedily satisfied 
that uothiug was there with which he had any- 
thing to do, he returned to his post, which he 
never forsook till his master's toioo gave him 
assurance that his long watch might end." 

From The Popular Science Review* 



The term Geology, which signifies the 
science of the earth, being derived from 
the two Greek words, r$, " the earth," and 
A670C, " a word or argument," has been va- 
riously interpreted by different writers pn 
the subject.* During the last generation, 
geology, as a science, was studied altogether 
from a purely mineraiogical and physical 
point of view ; an interpretation which be- 
came completely reversed when the intro- 
duction of paleontology, called in as an aid 
to its study, so absorbed the attention. of the 
majority of geologists, to the exclusion of 
almost all other branches of the science, 
that most of the later works on geology, 
especially here in England, may be regard- 
ed rather as histories of the development 
of life upon our globe than treatises on 
its geology in its more extended sense. 

A perusal of most, even of onr best- 
known manuals of geology, will show that 
their contents are almost entirely devoted 
to the fossiliferous strata, commencing 
their descriptions either with the most re- 
cent' formations, and proceeding back- 
wards until they stop at those more an- 
cient ones, in which only traces of organic 
remains have as yet been discovered ; or 
vice versa, beginning with the lower Si- 
urian or Cambrian rocks or in later years 
(since the discovery of that most perplex- 
ing organism the Eozoon Canadense) with 
the Laurentian formation, and treating 
the others in ascending order up to the 
present time : a system, which in either 
case makes the student feel the evident 
*vant of a beginning or first chapter in the 
geological record, whilst at the same time 
it imposes, as it were, a dictatorial bound- 
ary to his- field of research in a similar 
manner to what it would be, if he was 
told, when studying ethnology or the his- 
tory of mankind, to ignore everything con- 

• Including the strangely inappropriate apollca- 
tion of the term by 3ft. Meunier, who writes of the 
** Geology of the Heavens ! " and has lately published 
a work entitled " Le Ciel geologique." Paris, 1871. 

nected with the subject before printed 
cords existed, or as if an astronomer was 
advised to discard all discoveries of which 
he had not tangible evidence as to their 
correctness. Just, however, as the recent 
advances of the collateral sciences have 
cleared up bo many difficulties, and have 
added so much to our knowledge of pre- 
historic times, and the condition of the 
human race in earliest periods, or of parte 
of the cosmical system, which the astrono- 
mer of old could never even have imag- 
ined to be within man's power of investi- 
gation ; so it is to be expected, with the 
aid of our daily improving information 
and appliances, that proportionate ad- 
vances may also be made in our knowl- 
edge of what may be termed the prozoio 
history of the earth ; that is to say, of the 
different stages through which our globe 
has passed before it became fitted for the 
habitation of organisms even so low in the 
scale of life as are met with in the pre- 
viously mentioned formations, which mod- 
ern geologists appear so often to regard as 
the very ultima thule of their investigations. 

On the present occasion it is proposed 
to make an attempt to sketch out such an 
introductory chapter in geology as is here 
referred to, premising, however, that from 
its very nature it cannot be other thafi in 
the highest degree theoretical, and mast 
be regarded only as an essay, in which the 
more recent discoveries in physical and 
chemical science are appealed to in eluci- 
dation of a subject which, without their 
aid, would be all but unapproachable; 
and this is here brought forward in the 
belief that attempts made from time to 
time, to generalize and put into shape the 
somewhat disconnected facts and observa- 
tions relating to this subject, cannot but 
do good, notwithstanding that it must at 
the same time be self-evident that the 
views herein expressed will require to be 
modified from time to time according as 
the progress of scientific investigation fur- 
nishes more reliable and extended data 
for generalizing upon than are in our pos- 
session at the present moment. 

As is well-known, even the most ancient 
philosophers entertained the opinion that 
our globe had not always been what it was 
in their age ; that it had passed through 
varied phases, and that it once upon a 
time had even had a commencement to its 
present career. Later on, when astronomy 
came to be studied as a science, astrono- 
mers went still farther, and reasoned from 
a consideration of the earth's form, &c., 
that it must at a remote period have been 
in a fluid, or at least plastic condition ; -^ 



result which the subsequent observations 
on the temperature of the earth in depth 
and the products of volcanic action con- 
firmed, and led to the conclusion that our 
globe mast once have been a sphere of 
molten matter, which had Bolidified on its 
exterior, owing to the cooling action of 
the surrounding air. The celebrated La- 
place went still further, and, from a consid- 
eration of Herschere researches on nebu- 
las, propounded his so-called nebulous the- 
ory of the earth's origin, according to 
which our Bphere owed its existence to 
the aggregation and condensation of nebu- 
lous matter. The state of the natural 
sciences of the period was not, however, 
sufficiently advanced to furnish means by 
which this theory of Laplace could be 
either confirmed or disproved, so that it 
was long looked upon as a visionary hy- 
pothesis which was never even imagined 
as to be so far confirmed by future dis- 
coveries in science, as to become at this 
moment the most plausible explanation of 
a beginning of our world whioh has as yet 
been put forward. 

This being the case, our chapter of gen- 
esis commences by assuming the nebulous 
theory of the origin of our globe as the 
starting-point; and the first stage in the 
history of the earth is consequently the 
set of aggregating or segregating the neb- 
ulous matter in space, or, in other words, 
of gathering together in a gasiform con- 
dition the chemical elements of which the 
earth, with its surrounding atmosphere, is 
actually composed of. 

The consequence of the coming together 
of these elements would, as chemistry 
teaches us, result in their reacting upon 
one another with intense energy, giving 
rise to the development of both light and 
heat, and forming numerous chemical com- 
binations, the nature of which would be 
dependent upon the mutual affinities of 
the elements themselves, and the relative 
proportions in which they were respec- 
tively present in this admixture of gases 
aod vapours. The more simple or binary 
compounds would naturally be formed 
first, such as the oxides, sulphides, chlo- 
rides, &c. ; but these in turn would, com- 
bine inter $e, producing salts and other 
compounds, amongst which the silicates 
played a very prominent part. 

The final result of this great display of 
chemical energy would be to change en- 
tirely the nature and appearance of the 
original nebulous gathering of gasiform 
matter, for as soon as the chemical action 
had come to an end, by far the largest 
proportion of the newly-formed substances 

would no longer be able to retain the gas- 
iform condition at the lower temperature 
which then ruled, and would be condensed 
into fluids, when the whole would assume 
the shape of a sphere of molten matter 
surrounded by an intensely heated atmos- 
phere of such of the other compounds and 
free elemeuts as could still remain vola- 
tile at this temperature. 

This period might be termed the sec- 
ond stage in the history of the earth, and 
if examined into more closely, it would be 
found that neither the molten sphere nor 
the atmosphere surrounding it was of uni- 
form character throughout ; but owing to 
both of them being made up of a number 
of dissimilar substances, the first impulse 
of the newly-formed compounds would be 
to obey the laws of gravity by arranging 
themselves more or less completely in 
strata, or more correctly speaking, zones,' 
in accordance with their respective densi- 
ties, and the study of the composition of 
the rocks now forming the earth's exterior, 
and of those brought up from its depths 
by volcanic force*, along with that of the 
relative specific gravities of the parts in- 
accessible to our observation as compared 
to the density of the earth's mass as a whole, 
leads to the deduction that the molten 
sphere might at this period of its history be 
regarded as composed of some three great 
zones (probably with sub-zones), having 
the following general mineralogical char- 
acters : — 

1st. An exterior of molten rock of com- 
paratively little density which consisted 
of silicates, in which an excess of silioa 
was to a great extent combiued with 
alumina and alcali, but containing very 
little of the other bases, such as lime, mag- 
nesia, oxide of iron, &c. 

2nd. A middle zone, also of molten rock 
(silicates), considerably heavier than the 
foriner, and in which the silica, present in 
minimum proportion, existed in combina- 
tion with a large amount of the bases, 
lime, magnesia, oxide of iron, and alumina, 
with but comparatively little potash, and, 

3rd. A central nucleus of very much 
greater density and of metallic nature, the 
outer part consisting of compounds of the 
heavy metals with sulphur, arsenic, &c, 
whilst in the centre the metals themselves 
are probably in a free state, or as alloys. 

The constitution of the sphere of molt- 
en matter as thus arranged would now 
present a general character of stability 
maintained even after its solidification, 
due to the loss of heat radiated from its 
surface, and the cooling action of the ex- 
ternal air, had commenced. In the atmos- 



phere, however, the arrangement of the 
gases and vapour in zones would be much 
less permanent, as by degrees the zones 
would be more or less broken up by the 
tendency which gases have to diffuse them- 
selves throughout one another, as well as 
the condensation in succession of the 
different vapours contained in it, in pro- 
portion as the temperature of the whole 
became more and more lowered. In the 
first instance, however, that stratum of 
the atmosphere next to the earth would 
be composed of dense vapours of such 
compounds as are only volatile at very 
high temperatures, amongst which several 
of the chlorides and especially the chloride 
of sodium or common salt would be most 
prominent; above this a great zone of 
carbonic acid gas would prevail, then one 
of nitrogen with possibly the admixture 
of spme oxygen and above this again the 
vapour of water in enormous quantity. 

The third stage in the history of the 
earth may now be said to have commenced, 
when the earth as a molten sphere sur- 
rounded by a furnace-like atmosphere be- 
gan to cool down owing to the loss of heat 
radiated from its exterior into space ; by 
degrees a thin crust would commence to 
form on the surface of the molten rock 
which soon consolidated and extended over 
the exterior of the entire sphere, becom- 
ing thicker and thicker over the nucleus 
of molten matter until it offered more and 
more resistance to the passage of heat 
from within outwards, and thus caused the 
rate of further cooling to diminish greatly, 
and the more so from its being composed 
of a highly nonconducting material. In 
time, therefore, the external surface of the 
earth would come to be barely red hot, 
and as soon as this was the case we should 
find it become coated with a layer or in- 
crustation of the chlorides and other va- 
Eours hitherto held in suspension in the 
eated atmosphere, but which now owing 
to the lowering of temperature would be 
condensed and precipitated on to the now 
consolidated crust of earth. From the 
amount of the salts contained in the ocean 
and known deposits, it has -been estimated 
that the quantity of common salt alone 
would be sufficient to cover the entire 
sphere with a layer some ten feet in thick- 

As the process of cooling went on, as 
soon as the temperature of the atmosphere 
had become so lowered as to be below that 
of the boiling point of water, the enormous 
amount of steam hitherto pervading its 
uppermost regions would naturally be- 
come condensed into water, and at once 

fall down from the heavens as a deluge of 
hot rain upon the saline crust covering the 
sphere which it would instantly dissolve, 
forming the ocean which would thus be 
salt from the very first appearance of 
water upon the face of the globe. 

The atmosphere now freed from the 
vapours previously diffused throughout it, 
would still be very different from what it 
now is, as although it might contain pre- 
cisely the same gases, these would, how* 
ever, be present in vastly different propor- 
tions ; it would mainly be composed of an 
admixture of nitrogen and carbonic acid 
gas, free oxygen if present at all being but 
in very small amount, for it must be re- 
membered that the total amount of nitro- 
gen and carbon coutained in the entire 
animal, vegetable, and mineral kingdoms 
of the future, were at this moment held 
suspended in the atmosphere in the gas- 
eous form. 

This state of things brines us down to 
the fourth or last stage of the prozoic his- 
tory of the earth since it required but a 
comparatively short- period to lower its 
temperature sufficiently to enable many 
of the lower organisms to exist upon it or 
rather it should be said, in its ocean, for 
as yet we only recognize the earth as a 
sphere externally coated, as it were, with a 
uniform sheet of water. Certaiu changes 
have, however, been going on in the solid 
crust of the earth which here demand oar 
consideration, since they tended to com- 
pletely revolutionize its external features 
as well as prepared the way for its future 
career. In the first place, as soon as the 
stony crust had completely consolidated 
over the molten nucleus within, it would 
present itself with a comparatively uniform 
and smooth surface externally, when, 
however, this crust increased in thickness 
and became colder, contraction would take 
place in its mass, which would result in 
the production of crack* and fissures in 
the crust itself, the sides of which, becom- 
ing dislocated, would bring about eleva- 
tions and escarpments to interrupt the 
previously regular contour of the sphere, 
whilst by the subsidence of portions, some 
of the still fluid rock below would be 
forced up along the lines of such fissures 
and so form dykes of eruptive rook 
traversing the original crust. All these 
effects would, however, be immensely aug- 
mented, when the exterior had so far 
cooled down as to be covered with the 
ocean, since then, owing to such fissures 
allowing the water to penetrate down to 
the molten mass within, internal forces 
would be called into play, giving rise to 


volcanic phenomena which would result in 
the elevation of mountains, and the up- 
heaval of islands and continents, thus 
forming the first dry land on the surface 
of the earth. 

Instead of the previous uniform sphere 
we should now have its surface varied by 
elevations and depressions, valleys and 
mountain ranges, which by giving direc- 
tion to the movements of the salt water in 
the ocean, and the fresh water from the 
heavens, by which the lakes and rivers are 
supplied, would at last set in action those 
external or secondary forces which have 
played so important a part in modifying 
the outward configuration of our globe 
and the distribution of organic life over 
its surface. 

The primitive crust of the earth thus 
ruptured, along with the mineral matter 
ejected from below as> before described, 
would now become still further broken up 
and pulverized by the mechanical force of 
water, powerfully assisted by the decom- 
posing action of the great excess of car- 
bonic acid gas present in the atmosphere 
of this period, and would in process of 
time become so comminuted as to allow 
of the particles being carried off and 
sorted by the action of rivers and the sea, 
which would deposit them -as sedimentary 
beds of varying character. It sh ould ho w- 
ever be remembered that the exact min- 
eral composition of the original crust of 
the earth must ever remain an open ques- 
tion, for when we take into consideration 
the great changes it must have experi- 
enced during countless ages, and the vast 
amount of ** debris "directly or indirectly 
the result of its wear and tear, which has 
been scattered all over the globe, we can 
have no reason to expect to meet with any 
portion of it in «&6 in any part of the 
▼orld ; as, however, quartz is found to be 
the most preponderating of all the miner- 
als composing the most ancient rocks, this 
fret confirms the view that the original 
crust must have been extremely rich in 
nlica, much of which no doubt would sep- 
arate out from the other constituents in 
the form of quartz during the act of solidi- 

From this time up to the present age 
&I1 the various changes, whether of me- 
chanical or chemical origin, which have 
taken place in our globe have been 
brought about by agencies identical with 
those which we now see in operation, al- 
though possibly on a somewhat different 
scale; stratified rocks became formed 
from the wear and tear of the primitive 
crust by aqueous action, precisely as at 

the present moment we see them recon- 
structed from the '* dlbris " of preexisting 
rocks of all kinds ; the quartzites of the 
older rocks were formed from the com- 
minuted quartz out of the primitive crust, 
just as the later sandstones and grits, 
whilst the associated silicates owing to the 
action of carbonic acid and water would 
be more or less decomposed, thereby pro- 
ducing beds of clay and others of areno- 
argillaoeous character, whilst the largest 
proportion of the alkalies contained in 
them, would in the state of carbonates be 
carried off in solution by the water to the 
ocean, where they would react upon and 
decompose any chlorides or other salts of 
the metal, or earths which they might en- 

Whilst all these changes were in pro- 
gress, outbursts of fluid mineral matter 
from the still molten interior of the earth 
would from time to time continue to break 
through and disturb the primitive crust, 
and the rook strata in course of construc- 
tion above it, exactly as we at present see 
similar eruption* from volcanic centres, 
and as many of these would then as now 
take place at .parts of the crust covered by 
the ocean, they would result in production 
of vast volumes of submarine tufas and 
breccias which by the action of the waves 
would at once assume the form of ordinary 
stratified formations. 

With the exception, however, of some 
minor occurrences of caio-tufas and pre- 
cipitated carbonate of lime, no calcareous 
or limestone beds were deposited during 
this early period, nor were carbonaceous 
beds of any kind in course of formation, 
for the simple reason that both these 
classes of deposits owe their origin to the 
action of animal and vegetable organisms. 

The atmosphere of this stage in the 
earth's history was, however, vastly differ- 
ent from what it is at present : instead of 
being as now composed mainly of oxygen 
and nitrogen, along with a small admix- 
ture of carbonic acid gas, it, on the con- 
trary, contained so overwhelming an 
amount of carbonic acid and nitrogen 
gases with only a minute proportion of 
oxygen (if any), as to be totally unfitted 
for the respiration of air-breathing ani- 
mals, for which reason we find the first 
development of life of our globe represent- 
ed by submarine organisms of the lowest 
type, and these followed by a great devel- 
opment of vegetation, which by absorbing 
the carbonic acid gas, and decomposing it 
so as to assimilate the carbon contained in 
it for the benefit of future generations, 
whilst at the same time the oxygen was 



returned to the air, so purified the atmos- 
phere as to render possible the existence 
of still higher types of animal life on the 
surface of our globe. 

From The Pall Mall Gazette. 

If marriage is the ultimate destiny of 
most men, as it is thought to be the object 
and chief business of ail women, we are 
far from saying that the last are wrong in 
endeavouring, by any means within the 
bounds of decency and discretion, to attain 
to married life. Yet " 'Tis fit men should 
be coy when women woo." It was com- 
monly held to be most fitting that parents 
or near relatives should take the initiative 
when a match was to be made between in- 
different parties, so far as the woman was 
concerned, while the other sex, it was pre- 
sumed, could look out for themselves. But 
it appears that there- are many men in- 
competent to this, and innumerable youag 
women and widows who have neither 
father, mother, nor relative able and will- 
ing to assist them. What, then, is to be 
their fate? How avert the misfortune 
which threatens them? The answer is 
easy : Advertise in the Matrimonial News, 
The editor of that journal is the match- 
maker of the nineteenth century, and his 
paper appears to be established on princi- 
ples of the most business-like description. 
In every number the reader may review 
some 350 candidates for marriage, and for 
one shilling an advertiser may describe his 
or her attractions, provided that the same 
be done in no more than forty words. 
Questions of difficulty or delicacy referring 
to courtship are answered gratuitously in 
these columns, privately for twelve stamps, 
personally for 6s. ; a fee of 5*. is also re- 
quired one month after any marriage 
brought about by this machinery. We are 
assured that the business is bond fide, that 
confidence and secrecy are strictly ob- 
served, and, if we are to believe the*editor, 
hundreds of marriages have resulted from 
his labours. 

The modus operandi is this. The real 
name, address, and photograph of each 
candidate are deposited with the editor, 
the advertisement appears, and those who 
like correspond in the Matrimonial News, 
at first by numbers, like convicts: No. 
6,000 replies to Nos. 6,007 and 6,010 avow- 
ing that the particulars suit, and that he de- 
sires an exchange of photographs. This is 
done through the editor, who then, if both 

parties wish it, places them in direct private 
correspondence with each other, on condi- 
tion of receiving a fee (amount not stated). 
'• Assuming that all this has occurred, it is 
probable that the first step taken is to as- 
certain that the personal appearance is 
equal to the photograph, and the second to 
oause their respective lawyers to inquire 
as to the fortune of the lady and the " am- 
ple private means " of the gentleman. For 
it is a most noteworthy fact, and one which 
extorts our admiration, that not only 
fortune-hunting in these advertisements is 
conspicuous by its absence, but that in- 
stances of extreme disinterestedness 
abound, so that men of " priv ite fortune " 
or " ample means " expressly state that 
" money on the lady's side is of no moment.*' 
Out of nearly 200, not above twenty make 
it a necessary qualification. One, indeed, 
whose list of attractions is not of a solid 
order, asks for that of which he apparently 
has none. " The younger son of good 
county family, aged twenty-nine, fair, 5 ft. 
10in., has entre'e to best society, travelled 
a great deal, domestic, fond of country life, 
is a good shot, rides well, wishes to marry, 
but requires a wife with means. 1 ' A clergy- 
man " possessed of good means, who de- 
sires to form the acquaintance of a young, 
pretty, well-educated lady," to his eternal 
honour adds that "money, though an ad- 
vantage, is not an essential ; " while " Achil- 
les, who is an author and man of refine- 
ment and position, with means independ- 
ent of his profession," only demands 
" good sense and ladylike graces with a 
lady under forty. A noble aspiring soul, 
softened by a tender loving uature, will 
find iu Achilles a rosponsive echo and a 
kind, warm, and generous heart." The 
ladies in general state that they are tall or 
short, dark or fair, as the case may be, and 
that they are loving, affectionate, warm- 
hearted, thoroughly domesticated, some- 
times they modestly add, " and are consid- 
ered good-looking," or "very nice-looking, 
handsome," &c. One " feels sure that she 
would make a devoted wife ; " another 
declares she is " steady ; " a third mentions 
a highly desirable item, that she is " clean ; " 
a fourth that Bhe is "rather stout, bat 
mild, without encumbrance, of florid com- 
plexion, has a nice home and business of 
her own, but feeling lonely would like a 
suitable partner ; " a fifth is "of comforta- 
ble means and Juno like appearance;" a 
sixth would prefer a clergyman, and if 
possible a widower. Many have " fascina- 
ting manners," or are well connected and 
educated. Of widows, who are supposed 
to understand what man requires, a lar^e 



majority declare that they are "jolly;" 
while only two young ladies plead guilty 
to that quality. A considerable number 
candidly state that they have nothing be- 
yond a faithful loving heart and willing 
disposition to offer ; but fortunes of from 
£150 to £200 and £350 per annum, or from 
£3,000 to £5,500 down, with good expecta- 
tions, are quite common in these columns. 
One has " golden hair and a small yearly 
income/* another, " tho* poor and not with- 
out faults, is not to be bought with money.'* 
There is a case which is appalling, if true : 
u An heiress of noble family, aged twenty- 
four, yery handsome, with £720 a year 
from large landed estates, is a splendid 
pianist, harpist, speaks French and Italian, 
and rides and drives,'' is yet driven to the 
Matrimonial News. It is right to mention 
that she "will only correspond with a 
gentleman of good birth." Of the gentle- 
men not one has the courage to state that 
he is short in stature. They mostly de- 
scribe themselves as good-tempered, tall, 
" considered fine-looking," "think that 
they can make a wife or, sometimes, 
u any reasonable woman happy,*' of good 
position, &c • Many affirm that they are in 
possession of landed estates or of appoint- 
ments bringing in £1,000, £1,500, £2,000 
per annum, which, if true, is a matter easily 
Terified. " An heir co a considerable en- 
tailed estate " having no doubt observed 
the satisfactory results in business when 
**a V. 8. examination is allowed," mentions 
that he is " of sound health and unimpaired 
constitution;" valuable qualities indeed 
in either man or woman, which we should 
like to see more in request than is now the 
case. There are also advertisements from 
farmers and tradesmen who wish for eco- 
nomical managing helpmates. As we have 
before observed, fortune is rarely the essen- 
tial, bat good looks, education, and refine- 
ment are generally demanded ; in some in- 
itances beauty and musical talents are 
eoupled together. Several wish to be 
married before Christmas ; others entreat 
for speedy replies, as they are going to 
India, and one wishes to " marry at once " 
—this is a major in the armv with good 
means, and all he desires is a lady of good 
connections not over thirty-five. 

The strangest part of the traffic presents 
itself when we regard the social position 
of the candidates. In one batch there are 
two noblemen, two colonels, a member of 
three learned societies, barristers, physi- 
cians, missionaries, sauires .with beautiful 
residences and good fortune, county mag- 
istrates, and numberless naval and milita- 
ry officers; a French lady of title, two 

English ditto, one having a jointure of 
£3,000 per annum, two heiresses, whereof 
one is a ward in Chancery, entitled to 
large .landed property on coming of age — 
(is the Lord Chancellor aware of the pro- 
ceedings of his ward ?) — some half-dozen 
of noble family or of ancient lineage ; and 
above the rest in point of urgency is 
an application from a widow lady and her 
three daughters all wanting husbands and 
having independent incomes. Surely this 
is, to say the least of it, very strange. On 
another point a few words of warning 
seem needed. Certain of the candidates 
desire to correspond with too many of the 
other sex at once. Thus a bachelor, No. 
6,371, " desires to correspond " with no 
fewer than nine ladies; an Italian, No. 
6,421, with six ; a medical man, No. 6,456, 
with seven. The daughter of a deceased 
officer wishes to bear from eight gentle- 
men, and Emmeline, who is the offender 
in chief, wishes to correspond with as many 
as fourteen. Such a course of proceeding 
is hardly fair, nor is it promising of future 
happiness, for if the marriage accomplished 
proves unsatisfactory, the nucleus of re- 
gret, if not of discontent, is already formed. 
44 If I had only taken 5,423 instead of 6,- 
320,'' he or she will say, " so should I have 
been blessed, whereas now/* &c. It is 
hardly to be supposed that of 350 weekly 
advertisers all represent impostures, and 
we are assured (though we remain doubt- 
ful) that detection and exposure are the 
results of any attempt at a hoax. If our 
men and women are so driven by circum- 
stances that they can find suitable cora- 
E anions by no other method than this, so 
e it. Many there may be who marry in 
haste and repent at leisure ; but according 
to Congreve there is a worse fate possible. 
In his play of a The Old Bachelor " are 
t:e following lines : — 

Thus grief still treads upon the heels of pleas- 
Married in haste we may repent at leisure; 
Some by experience find those words misplaced— 
At leisure married they repent in haste. 

From The Speotator. 

Sir Bernard Burke has illustrated his 
office by several contributions to the ro- 
mance of history. His 'Extinct Peerages is 

• The Rise qf Great Families; other Essays and 
Stories. By Sir Bernard Burke, C.B., LL.D., Ulster 
King of Arms. London : Longmans, Green fc Co. 




an interesting and suggestive volume, oat 
of whose contents scores of novels might 
be made, in most cases with bat moderate 
exertion of imagination in aid of truth, 
and in many in such mitigation of it as 
would induce a favourable reception of the 
works by the public who have no taste for 
tragedy. In his Vicissitudes of Families 
many of the dry bones are clothed with 
flesh, aud how the mighty are fallen is aet 
forth with impressive plainness. It is a 
melancholy book, but deeply interesting, 
with its tracing of individual figures 
through the press and the hurry of gene- 
ral history, its holding fast to their skirts 
through the shifting scenes of their career, 
its dogging them to disaster, death, defeat, 
insignificance, or oblivion. 

The Rise of Great Families is the other 
Bide of the romance of history, treated in 
a similar way, and though slighter in com- 
position and less various in its interest, 
because it is concerned chiefly with the 
sunny side of the fortune* of its subjects, 
it is pleasant and curious reading. The 
herald king has been wandering among his 
records like Thomson among his peach 
trees, and has picked out bright and pros- 
perous incidents as the sentimental epicure 
picked out the sun-ripened bits of the 
rich fruit. They are strikingly put togeth- 
er, and they furnish a chit-chat commen- 
tary upon the contemporary history of 
many wearers of great names, which 
appeals to curiosity, and even to a finer, 
more philosophical sentiment. 

Sir Bernard Burke is a capital raconteur, 
though, like all specialists, he is apt to take 
it for granted that his readers know a 
great deal more than they do about the 
subject upon which he knows everything, 
and he is sometimes in consequence too 
chary of explanation in matters purely 
heraldic. In the present instance, though 
too "magaziny," he has selected and 
arranged his materials equally well, appor- 
tioning a fair share in the historic recol- 
lections which he records to England, 
Ireland, and Scotland respectively. He is 
indignant at the idea that the English 
aristocracy should be supposed to be de- 
ficient in antiquity of lineage, and proposes 
to meet Mr. Disraeli on that issue, in a 
passage which reminds one of the charm- 
ing discussion between Mrs. Dashwood 
and her daughters, in Miss Austen's Sense 
and Sensibility. Mrs. Dashwood and Mari- 
anne vehemently contend for the superior- 
ity of modest competence, Elinor prefers 
wealth, and is much condemned until it is 
discovered that her estimate of wealth 
falls considerably short of her mother's 

and sister's standard of competence. Mr. 
Disraeli's and Sir Bernard Burke** notions 
of an ancient lineage would probably bear 
a somewhat analogous proportion. Ulster 
might be satisfied with Malacbi, bat Mr. 
Disraeli would insist on Maccabasus; so 
that they are both right, the one when he 
affirms that "the Peers are of ancient 
lineage," the other when he makes Mr. 
Millbank say, M a Peer with an ancient 
lineage is to me a novelty." Sir Bernard 
gives a loug list, in support of his vindica- 
tion of the Peerage frdm the charge of 
new blood, and from it takes a few names, 
of which he says : — " The sound of them 
is the echo of the war-trumpet of the 
middle ages. 1 ' He gives due precedence 
to the " four centuries of ducal rank and 
eight centuries of unsullied ancestry asso- 
ciated with the name of Howard," with 
their frightful commentaries of royal 
alliances and violent deaths, their nineteen 
Knights of the Garter arid their twenty 
distinct peerages, the results of " a spring 
from simple chivalry to ducal position," a 
history more grand and tragic than any 
other English house has to chronicle. 

Then comes the story of Douglas, the 
name which is to Scotland what Howard is 
to England, and Geraldine and Butler are 
to Ireland, followed by some curious in- 
stances of the influence which heiresses 
have had on the rise of our great houses, 
especially in the case of the ducal house 
of Athole, whose representative, in right 
of his descent from heiresses, has a shield 
of more than a thousand quartering*. On 
the other hand, the Grahams have found 
no such favour, and the Duke of Montrose's 
shield has no quartering. For two-thirds 
of the 570 Peers and Peeresses now exist- 
ing Sir Bernard Burke claims ancient 
lineage, illustrated by noble achievement. 
The roll, as he calls it over, has a grand 
sound, and many of the old stories con- 
nected with the old names are carious and 
interesting. The feuds of the great houses 
form a lively chapter, beginning with the 
celebrated strife between Scrope and 
Grosvenor, when Geoffery Chaucer was 
called before the Court of the Lord High 
Constable as a witness ; the more friendly 
rivalry between Lord Spencer and the 
Marquis of Blandford for the possession 
of Boccaccio's Decamerone, which termi- 
nated in the purchase of the book by the 
Marquis for £2,300; and the controversy 
between Edward, Lord Stafford, and Mr. 
Bagot, of Blithfield, in the sixteenth cen- 
tury. Clan Chattan, O* Conor, and the 
Jones-Herbert controversies find mention 
here, and their points of dispute being 



naturally regarded by Ulster with a perfect 
seriousness, slightly comic to the unher- 
ildic mind, the reader finds himself turn- 
ing into a partisan during their perusal. 
Here is a charming anecdote, which we do 
not remember to have seen in print before : 
— u Sir John Schaw, of Greenock, a Whig, 
lost a Hawk, supposed to hare been shot 
by Bruce, of Clackmannan, a Jacobite. 
Id Sir John's absence, Lady Greenock 
aent Mr. Brace a letter, with an offer of 
her intercession, on Mr. Bruce 'a signing a 
very strongly-worded apology. His reply 
was: — u For the honoured hands of Dame 
Margaret Schaw, of Greenock : — Madame, 
—I did not shoot the hawk. Bat sooner 
than have- made such an apology as your 
Ladyship has had the consideration to 
dictate, I wonld hare shot the hawk, Sir 
John Schaw, and your Ladyship. — I am, 
Madame, your Ladyship's devoted servant 
to command, Clackmannan." 

The perplexities of precedence furnish 
Sir Bernard with material for a pleasant 
chapter, but one which yields in attraction 
to a narrative of the ancient glories of 
Dublin Castle in the dead-and-gone days 
of Stanhope, Chesterfield, and Harrington, 
▼hen u the Lady Lieutenant' ' had a pre* 
scribed etiquette of the most pretentious 
description, and the orders were strict as 
to the lighting of u a few candles only in 
the Presence Chnmber, Privy Chamber, 
sad Drawing Boom, the remainder of the 
candles to be lighted up when the grooms 
find the ladies coming." Those were the 
days of dancing " high and disposedly," in 
the presence of their Excellencies " within 
the Bar" and the solicitude displayed in 
in old MS. programme of private balls for 
the sacred preservation of the " Bed 
Benches " is highly entertaining. " Before 
the Ball Boom is opened for ladies, four 
Battleaxes are to be posted, with orders 
sot to suffer any ladies on the Bed 
Benches but such as shall be placed there 
by the Lady Lieutenant, Gentleman Usher, 
or Gentlemen at large. The Gentlemen 
at large are to attend the ladies from the 
Battleaxe Guard Boom into the Ball Boom, 
and place them, taking care not to let any 
hut ladies of quality sit on the Bed 
Benches." Those mnst have been fine 
times when Lord Chesterfield wrote home 
that the only " dangerous Papist" he had 
net in Ireland was Miss Ambrose, a sobri- 
quet borne by that sparkling queen of 
beauty ever afterwards; and a Dublin 
newspaper announced her marriage in 
1752, in terms in which we find the origin 
of one of the wittiest and most imperti- 
nent of well-known sayings : — «* The cele- 

brated Miss Ambrose, of this kingdom," 
says the enthusiastic print, "has, to the 
much-envied happiness of one and the 
grief of thousands, abdicated her maiden 
empire of beauty, and retreated to the 
Temple of Hymen. Her husband is Bo- 
ger Palmer, Esq., of Castle Jackson, Co, 
Mayo, M. P." 

'- Fragments of Family and Personal 
History, and Historical Picture Galleries/* 
are full of the interest which attaches to 
getting at the individuals who make up 
the crowds of the great world. Sir Ber- 
nard Burke has not been able altogether 
to exclude the sad element from this book. 
It comes out strongly in the romance 
of the Aberdeen peerage, and the story of 
Pamela. In the latter case, we observe 
with pleasure that he passes over as be- 
neath notice the slander which accused 
Lady Edward Fitzgerald of having be- 
trayed the secret of her husband's retreat. 
That could not have been true, even of 
Egalitl's daughter. 

One of the moot points in modern his- 
tory is the birth-place of the Duke of 
Wellington. Sir Bernard Burke has col- 
lected all the evidence, hearsay and docu- 
mentary, which bears upon the subject, 
and decides, we think with reason, in fa- 
vour of Mornington House, Upper Mer- 
rion Street, Dublin. A lar^e number of 
celebrated persons, great in station or % 
individually remarkable, fiit before the 
reader in tnis book, which tacks itself on 
to the writer's graver works and to heavier 
history in an illustrative, suggestive, real- 
istic way, both useful and amusing. 


Sib Henry Holland has sent to the 
Times some very interesting recollections 
of Mrs. Somerville. He Bays that had she 
lived but a month longer she would have 
reached her ninety-third year. This fact, 
Sir Henry remarks, will interest all to 
whom it is welcome to see great faculties 
like hers maintained and actively exer- 
cised to this great age. " That thev were 
so maintained, and this with little impair- 
ment of the senses, is attested by two or 
three striking facts. Three years only 
have elapsed since she published her two 
volumes on * Molecular and Microscopic 
Science ' — a work of great labour and re- 
search, accomplished under circumstances 
little favourable to its prosecution. I 
happen to know that within the last year 
of her life she desired to be sent to her at 



Naples Professor Hamilton's ' Calculus of 
Quaternions/ a record of one of the most 
recent and remarkable attainments in the 
higher mathematics. It is interesting to 
associate this fact with one dating sixty 
years before. In 1811 Mrs. Somerville re- 
ceived a medal at Edinburgh as a prize 
for the solution of some mathematical 
problem." Sir Henry Holland proceeds : — 

Mrs. Somerville's first, great work, the " Me- 
chanism of the Heavens,' ' based on the " M6- 
eanique Celeste " of Laplace, established at once 
her repute as a mathematician, and in a branch 
of mathematics at that time little pursued or 
taught in England, though since cultivated with 
such admirable success, and so largely applied 
to other departments of science. It is told, and 
I believe the anecdote to be well founded, that 
Laplace himself, commenting on the English 
mathematical school of that period, said there 
were only two persons in England who thor- 
oughly understood his work, and these two were 
women — Mrs. Greig and Mrs. Somerville. The 
two thus named were, in fact, one. Mrs. Som- 
erville twice married. Her first husband was 
Captain Greig, son of High Admiral Greig, of 
the Russian navy, a distinguished officer under 
the Empress Catherine. Left a widow, with one 
son, Mr. Woronzow Greig (since deceased), she 
some years afterwards married her cousin, Dr. 

Somerville, by which marriage she had three 
daughters, two of them now surviving her. . . . 
From these slight notioes of her scientific career 
J willingly pass to those other features of Mrs. 
Somerville's charaoter and life whioh her long 
absence from England (caused by motives of 
economy and the love of tranquil leisure) have 
hidden from general knowledge. She was a 
woman not of science only, but of refined and 
highly cultivated tastes. Her paintings and 
musical talents might well have won admiration, 
even had there been nothing else beyond them. 
Her classical attainments were considerable, 
derived probably from that early part of lift 
when the gentle Mary Fairfax — gentle she 
must ever have been — was enriching her mind 
by quiet study in her Scotch home. It may 
surprise some of the readers of this letter to be 
told that she was admirable in needlework also. 
A rent in old lace she would so repair that the 
new work could hardly be distinguished from 
the old. A few words mere on the moral part 
of Mrs. Somerville's character; and here too I 
speak from intimate knowledge. She was the 
gentlest and kindest of human beings; qualities 
well attested even by her features and conversa- 
tion, but expressed still more in all the habits 
of her domestio and social life. Her modesty 
and humility were as remarkable as those tal- 
ents whioh they concealed from oommon obser- 
vation, pall Mall Gazette. 

A letter from Pera in the Allgemeine Zet- 
tung purports to give a full account of the cir- 
cumstances which led to the dismissal .of Midhat 
Pasha from the post of Grand Vizier. Midhat's 
predecessor, says the correspondent, strove to 
retain the favour of the Sultan by facilitating 
in every way the Court expenditure; not only 
were all the alleged savings of the State Treas- 
ury placed at the Sultan's disposal, but the 
revenues from the provinces were sent direct to 
the Imperial palace. For this purpose the Sul- 
tan had organised a kind of police whose sole 
duty it was te look after the revenues in ques- 
tion. Immediately on the arrival of a steamer 
with cash from the provinces one of the Sultan's 
aides-de-camp used to go on board and present 
an Imperial order authorizing him to receive the 
money. When Midhat Pasha assumed office, he 
at once put a stop to this practice, and re-estab- 
lished the privilege, formerly enjoyed by the 
Banque Ottomane, of receiving all the State 
revenues, and making payments on account of 
the interest of the State debt, the pay of officials, 
the army, &o. Shortly after the Sultan asked 
for 10,000 lire, which were paid to him only by 
instalments. This was followed by a further 
demand for 60,000 lire, which Midhat Pasha 
flatly refused to pay. This, combined with his 
efforts to introduce a more liberal system of pub- 

I Ho education in the face of the opposition of the 
j orthodox Mussulmans, completely lost him the 
favour of the Sultan. On the 18th of October 
Midhat made an excursion by railway to Pan- 
dik, while the remaining ministers assembled in 
the palace to offer their congratulations to the 
Sultan on his birthday. His Majesty, however, 
refused to receive them, and in the evening he 
sent one of his aides-de-camp to request Midhat 
to give up the great seal to Mehemet Rusohdi 
Pasha. The latter has already twice been Grand 
Vizier — in 1860 under Sultan Abdul Medjid, 
and in 1867 under the present Sultan. In 1826, 
when Sultan Mahmoud ordered the massacre of 
the Janissaries, Rusohdi was made a sub-officer 
in the new Turkish army, in whose organiza- 
tion he played a prominent part. He is (says 
the correspondent) an honest, patriotic, and dis- 
interested man, but he wants creative power and 
energy. He is accused of being an enemy of 
Europeans, but this is true only in part, as he is 
a warm admirer of German science, and espe- 
cially of the military organization of Germany, 
and only dislikes the French notions which are 
held .by some of his countrymen. During the 
late war the German victories were oelebrated in 
his house with great rejoioings. 

Pall Hall Gazette. 


Mott thinking peoph hare wished that they "could bead ill TBI riPKU." Thi Week 
txablt* one to do nearly at writ. It quotes the ibpobtant editorials of the best papers, 0/ 
Ui Fakties, ffirei till news irorlft milling, and tells what it going on in Litkeatbbe, science, 
as* ABsT. Cultivaied persons with but little time to rtad, or living in out-of-the-way pfticei, 
tni/Jimi jfj'u" what thry hare bee n looking for. Subscribers for 1873 receive the paper from 
Ui* liases. Send tor gratis specimen number to 

Contents of Number for Dee. 20. 

Etksts, 76 Ueho Cart-hew. A Novel. By Luui: 

Ceiwcrre, {Home :) 

Jav Gould's, 

The Election, of President und Vice- 
Preside i 

The Arkansas Election, 
The Alabama Quinel, 
The President's Sultry, 
Tbe Debate on Dissolution, . 


Canadian Government Officials, . 

French Statesmen. — »o. 6. M. Rouber, 
Anecluies of Mr. Forest, . 

Horace Greeley 

The DvnA President 

The Fascination of Money, , 
Heidelberg, On the Terrace, 
Japanese " Glass Rope," 

Dorothy Fox." 

Chapter IV. 

TbeWooinqO't. A Note). Chapter XVI., 


Forster'e Life of Dickeiu, . 


Literary Gussip 91 

Science and Discovert i 
Movements in Hie Star Depths, . . 92 
A Bare Test of Death, ... 93 
Science Gossip, 98 

°"-2 | An, Music, AND DraKA : 

fi*l Exhibition of Modern It nl inn Art at Mi- 


Art Gossip, 

Prices or Stocks a 


Edited by P. B. TANDERWEYDE, Rf.D. 

An IHastrated and Bound Monthly Journal, in large quarto, denoted to ths advancement sad 
diffuBonof Practical Bataeo*. 



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Thirteen Patterns of Embroidery adapted to Ladies' and Children's wearing apparel, such aa 
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This valuable collection of books is issued in three bindings. Price of each, in Boards, 
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[ruEr Scrio 


Ho. 1493.— January 18, 1878. 

(From Beginni ng, 
I Vol. OTVL 


II MnmuDfABcn, Blackwood* $ Magazine, . . 181 

1 3. His Ltttlb Serkkb Highness. Part III., Trans- 
lated from the Platt-Devtsch of . . Fritz Renter, . .146 

Codtcidekcks jlkd Superstitions, Comkill Magazine, . . 164 

Sba-Sigkbbh, JVature, 168 

"Lotz ib Enough," Atkenmum, .... 166 

Tbb Two Brothers. By KM. Erckmann-Chat- 

rian. Part IL, 8t. Jamet Magazine, 169 

r. Tbb Public Lands or the United States, FrastrU Magazine, . 175 

Tbb Maori Character, Spectator 180 

Animal Gbotesques, Spectator, 188 

I. Bride* ajtd Bridals, Spectator, 186 

"The White Man'b Grave," .... Pall Mall Gazette, . .187 

Tbb True Story or the Ships lent bt Charles 


Jthttueum, 190 

» * 


. 180 | Tbb Bebatobs or Trevbs, ... 180 

146, 168, 192 




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Soft fell the twilight from the summer sky, 

And gray the garden grew; 
Alone wo thought, we wanderod — yon and I — 
But love went too. 

Yet all the while no word of him we spake, 

We talked of trees, flowers, birds; 
But still his mystio musio seemed to shake 
Through all our words. 

Through all our talk a tender tremor ran, 

Full low, and soft, and sweet; 
And when we lightly parted, I began 
To think of it. 

Each word of yours I oounted even as gold 

A miser gloateth o'er; 
And twice and thrice the precious sum I told, — 
And then once more. 

Each look of yours, the flower you gave to me, 

These were as jewels then : 
Ay, as great jewels ravished from the sea 
For lordly men. 

The flower has faded in a book — our talk 

Has faded too, in part — 
But yet I know that in that twilight walk 
I lost my heart 

I dream I wander with you even now; 

I see the boughs that blend 
Their glorious green overhead, and wonder how 
Our walk will end T 

The honeysuckle's scent is in the air, 

It is the twilight hour, — 
I turn and see a face to me more fair 
Than any flower. 

And in that faoe I strive to read my fate, 

And in those wondrous eyes; 
And trembling in the balance as I wait 
My future lies . 

Do yoa e'er dream of it as well as I T 

Do you think of it yet ? 
I shall remember it until I die, — 
Shall you forget ? 

London Society. 


Because the Goths are nigh , 

And Caesar's help is late, 
Because the time is come to die, 

The time is past to wait; 

Therefore, we feast in state, 
And fill the goblet high, 
To drink to steadfast prophecy 

And to avenging fate. 

The Caesar's throne may fall, 

But Csssar's law shall stand, 
To reign within the blackened wall, 

Over the wasted land. 

Our sons, though weak of hand, 
Shall conquer in their thrall. 
For they shall bind on great and small 

Words in a bitter band. 

Our daughters, in their shame, 

Shall stoop to harsh behest; 
But they shall set their lords aflame 

With longing, sick unrest; 

Yea, and the sackcloth vest 
The strong desire shall tame, 
And by the Heavenly Husband's Dame 

They shall avenge us best 

Till phame, and doubt, and care. 

In barren years to be, 
Shall teach a foe too proud to- spare 

To pi oe to be as we. 

Whatever sights we see, 
At last we can despair; 
They shall be hopeless , and not dare 

Call death to set them free — 

Like us whose hair grew white 

Under a rosy crown ; 
For Caesar chid us back from fight 

In days when it was brown. 

We lay our burden down, 
And almost count it light; 
We sink without a blow to-night. 

But not without renown. 

It shall be said .that some 

Out of the listless mass, ' 
Whose hearts were cold, whose arms 

Who were cut down like grass. 

Looked full in Time's dim gloss. 
And drank ere they were dumb, 
To all the woe that is to come, 

To all that is to pass. 

For time will make a prey 

Of bitter fruit he bore, 
That he may bear another day 

Fruit, bitter as before. 

We pass, but we adore 
What will not pass away, 

C&sar or Christ shall be that toy 
Of Borne for evermra. 

Since what we have defied 

Is still an empty show, 
'Tis well that other eyes abide 

Its bloodier overthrow. 

Hark ! 'tis the shout we know, 
And they -are just outside ; . 

But still the western gates stand wide 
For all who care to go; 

We eye the battle line, 

We list the battle din, 
We have watched long in victory's shrine. 

Her feast will soon begin. 

Perhaps she counts it sin 
Because her marbles shine 

With nothing redder yet than wine — 
Let other revellers in. 

At Treves they tang this tong 

Some centuries ago ; 
Jit other Gotkt may come ere long, 
The tune it good to know. 

Cornhill Magazine. 


From Blackwood's Magazine. 

It is difficult to say how far the large 

expect, would have been in her eyes some- 
what of a degradation. Here is her de- 
scription : 

circle of readers who hailed with keen de- j " Miss Brooke had that kind of beauty whioh 
light the announcement of a new novel by awnis to be thrown into relief by poor dress. 
* George Eliot," will be satisfied with that , Her **"& and wrist wepe 8° finel 7 formed that 
writer for having adopted the tantalizing she °° ald weaP • leevM »ot less bare of style 
expedient of issuing this last by instal- tha n those in which the Blessed Virgin appeai-ri 
ments- a single " book " at a time. Cer- 1 t0 Italian P* inter »? •*<* her P rofil « as well as 
tnlythe tales which have already pro . ^ r future and bearing seemed to gain the more 

ceeded from this hand owe their deserved *£7 fP ° m *?.?*?. «**"«* *** * 
Mmni.*i«« u M « i • i x ,, 8lde * provincial fashion gave her the lmpres- 

ffT f !L 7 T S eXClu8,V 1 el ^ to the *~of a fine quotatioffrom the Bible, -or 

loterestof the narrative, or to that eager from one of our elder poets,-in a paragraph 

conoaty which may sometimes be roused of to-day's newspaper. She was usually spoken 

&T tbe skilful handling of a mystery, of as being remarkably clever, but with the ad. 

far less do tbejr depend for their attrac- dition that her sister Celia had more common- 

tion upon anything that can be understood sense. Nevertheless, Celia wore scarcely more 

by the term " sensational." Such books trimmings; and it was only to close observers 

are not like the " foaming grape of eastern tDat ner dress differed from her sister's, and 

France," whose chief zest is lost unless we nad a shade of coquetry in its arrangements; 

take the full draught at once, and which for Mis8 Brooke's plain dressing was due to 

becomes stale and unprofitable if set mUed °° nditi o n «» * n m o*t of which her sister 

«de by any interruption ; they are like shared ' The Dride of bcin * Udie8 hftd Bome - 

the still old wine of rare vintage, whose ***** do with f it: the Brooko connections, 

flivour we love to dwell upon and to re- f*°* ^JS^ • n ^^j * cre ™*»- 

enr to, and which we have no desire to l 10 ^ 7 . g °° d: * y ° U "**"*. l T k l ri f l for 
»» «* ~ * r u j t* **«**" ™ a generation or two, you would not find any 

EL 1 °?! D ?' If "7 W0 * ° f jard-measuring or parcel-tying forefathers- • 

**«« can bear the being read in portions anything lower than an admiral or a clergyman; 

jnthwt injury to its effect, it is one which, and there was even an ancestor discernible as a 

we the present, is really not so much a Puritan gentleman who served under Cromwell, 

MTel as a narrative which is made the but afterwards conformed, and managed to come 

Tehide of careful studies of character, fine out of all political troubles as the proprietor of 

ud discriminating satire, and original a respectable family estate. Young women of 

thought clothed in the most finished and su °b birth, living in a quiet country-house, and 

Epigrammatic language. Regarded in this attending a village church hardly larger than a 

point of view, each "book " of "Middle- parlour, naturally regarded frippery as the am- 

Barch" is complete in itself. But thorough bitlon of a huckster's daughter. . . . Dorothea 

justice will not have been done to the kn ^ m»°y Phages of Pascal's Pe»^€« and. of 

work until it has been read through a J ™ m ? Ta ^ r *' hea ? ; » nd ;* ' he J ** .*•*- 

scondtime as a whole -an experiment ?** ° ^" li kind >"** \ h ' *] ; ^ of Chnstian- 
v k;.v „ w ft .,, , , ity, made tbe sohoitudes of feminine fashion an- 

1IM A ' • her l °I De0f tl " 8 reconcile the anxieties of a spiritual life involv- 

a.ddlemarch history, is as unlike an ordi- ing eternal consequences, with a keen interest 

wy modern young lady as well can be. i„ guiro p and artificial protrusions of drapery. 

sue would have felt, perhaps, that in say- Her mind was theoretic, and yearned by its nn- 

ag ih» we were paying her almost the ture after some lofty conception of the world 

°°lj compliment which she would have which might frankly include the parish of Tip- 

tiluei To be complimented, or even to ton and her own rule of conduct there; she was 

» made Jove to, after the fashion which enamoured of intensity and greatness, and rash ' 

BQ$t of her sex permit, and even seem, to m embracing whatever seemed to her to have 

those aspects; likely to seek martyrdom, to 

'Middtenareh: A Study of Provincial Life. By make retractations, and then to incur martyr- 

George EBot William Blackwood and Sons, Edlo- dom after all in a quarter where she had net 

"lb tad London. 187L sought it." 



Her pet occupation (or her "favourite 
fad" as her Bister irreverently calls it) ia 
drawing plans of model cottages for the 
poor; she disciplines herself by occasional 
fasts, has scruples about wearing even her 
mother's family jewels, and though very 
fond of riding, is not free from conscientious 
qualms on that subject " She felt that 
she enjoyed it in a pagan sensuous sort of 
way, and always looked forward to re- 
nouncing it." In short, she is one of those 
possible Saint Theresas who, through 
" the meanness of opportunity," never 
come to the front. 

Celia, the younger, looks upon her sis- 
ter's peculiarities with a good deal of awe, 
mixed with suppressed impatience. She 
has the feeling, sometimes, that Dorothea 
is " too religious for family comfort.*' To 
her practical eyes — 

" Notions and soruples were like spilt needles, 
making one afraid of treading, or sitting down, 
or even eating." 

Mr. Brooke, the bachelor uncle with 
whom the two sisters reside, is the Squire 
of Tipton Grange in Loamshire, keeping up 
country hospitality on an income of some 
three thousand a-year ; " a man of nearly 
sixty, of aquiescent temper, miscellaneous 
opinion 8, and uncertain vote." His conver- 
sation — which is of the same miscellaneous 
character as his opinions — is the sort of 
talk to which we have all listened in a coun- 
try bouse, the master of which has travelled 
a little, and read a little, and dabbled a lit- 
tle in accomplishments in his younger days. 
Mr. Brooke's mind is a perfect museum of 
ideas, or what he takes for such ; just as 
bis library drawers are stuffed with what 
he calls " documents " — miscellaneous pa- 
pers which he has collected on all sorts of 
subjects ; and the " scrappy slovenliness," 
as his author calls it, with which he jerks 
out his disjointed talk is highly comical. 
He indulges a good-humoured illusion 
that he is a kind of undeveloped universal 
genius, a Crichton in posse, who could have 
beaten his listeners at their own favourite 
weapons if he had cared to take the pains. 
u I was too indolent, you know " — he ex- 
plains, on one occasion — " else I might 
have been anywhere at one time. 1 ' In- 
deed, his natural seal for knowledge would 

have " carried him over the hedge," as he 
observes, "but I saw it wouldn't do — I 
pulled up; I pulled up in time." This 
complacent appreciation of his own lapsed 
possibilities is of the most inoffensive sort, 
though it brings the' Squire into some little 
trouble, inasmuch as it tempts him to take 
up the " independent " line in politics, and 
fall a prey to the radical wire-pullers in 
the borough of Middlemarch, who are as 
eager as any of their fellows to secure a 
gentleman of family and position to put in 
their front 

To such a man, his niece Dorothea is 
necessarily somewhat of a mystery. He 
looks upon her with much admiration, a 
little occasional awe, and a' little of that 
contempt which we all secretly feel for 
anything which we cannot understand. 
Her ways are not as the ways of other 
young women. And when she declares it 
" impossible " for her to marry their neigh- 
bour, Sir James Chettam — " a blooming 
Englishman of the red-whiskered type " — 
whose estates adjoin the Tipton property, 
and who is really a very good tempered 
and amiable fellow besides being a baro- 
net — though, as even Mr. Brooke is 
driven to confess, "he doesn't go much 
into ideas "— then his feeling of the in- 
scrutable nature of the female problem is 

44 Mr. Brooke wondered, and felt that women 
were an inexhaustible subject of study, since 
even he at his age was not in a perfect state of 
scientific prediction about them." 

Poor Sir James Chettam has been an 
unacknowledged suitor of Dorothea's some 
time before the story opens. Ho has never 
as yet made open profession ; and Dorothea 
has steadily in her own mind, though lat- 
terly with some degree of wilful blindness, 
referred all his visits to the Grange to the 
account of her younger sister, and treated 
him with a frank kindness as a possible 
brother-in-law. For Celia such a destiny, 
with its commonplace happiness, might 
be possible; but for herself — the idea, 
when it is flashed upon her consciousness 
at last by Celia's plain speaking, is, as she 
says, *• horrible." 

" Dorothea, with all her eagerness to know 
the truths of life, retained very childlike ideas 



abort oiarriage. She felt rare she would have 
accepted the judicious Hooker, if ahe had been 
bora in time to tare him from that wretched 
intake he made in matrimony; or John Milton 
when hit blindness had come on; or any of the 
other great men whose odd habits it would have 
be* glorious piety to endure. Bat an amiable 
hudsome baronet, who said 'Exactly' even 
vhen the expressed uncertainty — how could be 
alert her as a lover? The really delightful 
marriage must be that where your husband was 
« sort of lather, and could teach you even He- 
lm, if you wished it" 

Id fact, Miss Brooke has just at this 
time found — or thinks she has found — 
the ideal hero to whom she feels she can 
devote herself, who (to use the expression 
of her own thoughts) " could understand 
the higher inward life, and with whom 
there could be some spiritual communion." 
To her enthusiastic fancy, which has been 
dreaming of this nobler destiny of women, 
the coming cavalier wears upon his head 
(we are borrowing the illustration from 
the motto to the chapter) the resplendent 
helmet of Mambrino. Certainly, to the 
reader's eyes, he appears clad in much 
more ordinary fashion. He is the Rev. 
Edward Casaubon, rector and squire (for 
be lives in the manor-house) of the neigh- 
bouring pariah of Lowick, a learned and 
retired scholar, who has for years been 
nuking voluminous collections for an im- 
portant projected work — a " Key to all 
Mythologies ; " intended to show " that all 
the mythical systems or erratic mythical 
fragments in the world were corruptions 
of a tradition originally revealed ; " to su- 
persede, we suppose, that remarkable but 
almost forgotten book, Gale's " Court of 
the Gentiles." Mr. Casaubon dines for 
the first time at the Grange, and there 
makes complete conquest of poor Dorothea. 
Her admiration is not shared by Celia, 
vho ean see no Mambrino's helmet — only 
a rery plain man of from forty-five to fifty, 
«ith blinking eyes, the effect of continual 
Body, and other disagreeable peculiarities. 
Here is the conversation which takes 
place between the sisters after this first 

"When the two girls were in the drawing- 
mm alone, Celia said — 
M ' How very ugly Mr. Casaubon is! ' 

"•Celia! He is one of the most distin- 
guished men I ever saw. He is remarkably like 
the portrait of Locke. He has the same deep 

" • Had Locke those two white moles with 
hairs on them T ' 

" * Oh, I daresay! when people of a certain 
sort looked at him,' said Dorothea, walking 
away a little. 

" ' Mr. Casaubon is so sallow.' 

" * All the better. I suppose you admire a 
man with the complexion of a cockon de lait.' 
[This is a spiteful hit at poor Sir James — for 
Celia's benefit] 

" * Dodo! ' exclaimed Celia, looking after her 
in surprise. * I never heard you make such a 
comparison before.' 

" ' Why should Tmake it before the occasion 
oameT It is a good comparison: the match if 

" Miss Brooke was dearly forgetting herself, 
and Celia thought so. 

'! * I wonder you show temper, Dorothea.* 

14 * It ia so painful in you, Celia, that you 
will look at human beings as if they were mere 
animals with a toilette, and never see the great 
soul in a man's face.* 

" * Has Mr. Casaubon a great soult* Celia 
was not without a touch of naive malice. 

" 4 Yes, I believe he has,* said Dorothea, with 
the full voice of decision. ' Everything I see in 
him corresponds to his pamphlet on Biblical 

" * He talks very little,' said Celia. 

" • There is no one for him to talk to.* " 

But Celia's opinion of this hero of her 
sister's imagination is more plainly ex- 
pressed during a subsequent conversation 
beteen the two. The Rector is coming to 
the Grange again to dinner ; this time as 
the accepted lover of Dorothea, thongh 
the younger sister has not yet been made 
acquainted with that fact. 

*' * Is any one else coming to dinner besides 
Mr. Casaubon ? * 

•'• Not that I know of.* 

" * I hope there is some one else. Then I 
shall not hear him eat his soup so.' 

" * What is there remarkable about his soup- 
eating T ' 

"* Really, Dodo, can't you hear how he 
scrapes his spoon ? And he always blinks be- 
fore he speaks. I don't know whether Locke 
blinked, but I'm sure I'm sorry for those who 
sat opposite to him if he did.' 

" * Celia,' said Dorothea, with emphatio grav- 




it j, ' pray don't make any more observations of 
that kind.' 

'* * Why not ? They are quite true/ returned 
Celia, who .had her reasons for persevering, 
though she was beginning to be a little afraid. 

" * Many things are true whioh only the com- 
monest minds observe.' 

" * Then I think the commonest minds must 
be rather useful. I think it is a pity Mr. Cas- 
aubon 's mother had not a commoner mind: she 
might have taught him better.' " 

It is the modern version, often repeated 
in the prosaic chronicles of life, of Titauia 
and ber love ; only that in this case the hero 
of feminine admiration, whatever bis social 
deficiencies, has not exactly an ass's head 
on his shoulders. He is only too learned, 
and too devoted to his literary investiga- 
tions. But the die is cast. The beauty 
and brightness of Dorothea, her intelli- 
gence and enthusiasm, — and even still 
more, we must suppose, the marked inter- 
est with which she listens to his pedantic 
pententiousness,— have caught the fancy 
of the middle-aged student, and awoke -in 
him a sensation which he supposes to be 
love. It is not only, or chiefly, that he 
has been '» using up his eyesight too much 
of lute upon old manuscripts, and wants a 
reader for his evenings," and is, in this 
matter, " fastidious in voices," as he has 
told Mr. Brooke ; though this consideration 
has clearly had a large share in directing his 
thoughts towards the acquisition of a wife. 
Still, his feelings are genuine, so far as 
they go. The lonjj letter in which he con- 
veys his proposal is redeemed from much 
of its egotism and assumption of superior- 
ity by one or two touches which show that 
such heart as he has is really concerned in 
the matter, and by the confession that '- in 
this order of experience he is still young." 
Dorothea accepts him, — thankfully, 
almost rapturously ; with an amount of 
tearful gratitude which, if young ladies in 
her position often feel, they at least do not 
let either their lovers or their biographers 
into the secret. " She fell on her knees, 
buried her face, and sobbed." Here was 
her ideal destiny realized. 

" How could it occur to her to examine the 
letter, to look at it critically as a profession of 
love I Her whole soul was possessed by the fact 
that a fuller life was opening before her; she 
was a neophyte about to enter on a higher grade 
of initiation. She was going to have room for 
the energies whioh stirred uneasily under the 
dimness and pressure of her own ignorance and 
the petty peremptoriness of the world's habits.'* 

If Miss Brooke's feelings are very unlike 
those which ordiuary young women would 
be conscious of on the eve of matrimony, 

so is the Rev. Edward Casaubon, in his 
views on that important step, very unlike 
a regulation lover. He does not hesitate, 
in his very original love-letter, to explain 
that he looks upon Dorothea as a com- 
panion who is '* to supply aid in graver 
labours, and to cast a charm over vacant 
hours." So, again, in one of their first 
conversations after their engagement, he 
says to her: u The great charm of your sex 
is its capability of an ardent self-sacrificing 
affection ; and herein we see its fitness to 
round and complete the existence of our 
own." It is not improbable that middle- 
aged gentlemen, when they choose a wife 
of deliberate purpose rather than from 
what is called falling in love, are often 
very consciously and principally influenced 
by such considerations, and that they are 
frequently much more truly "in love" 
with the in Selves than with the lady. But 
they must feel that it would scarcely help 
their suit, and might rather startle her 
self-appreciation to be told that, instead 
of a necessity to the suitor's happiness, 
she is only to be taken up as the amuse- 
ment of a M vacant hour." . 

No wonder that such a lover looks for- 
ward eagerly to "the happy termination 
of his courtship," because, among other 
reasons, it is " a hindrance to the progress 
of his great work." 

" But he had deliberately incurred the hin- 
drance, having made up his mind that it was 
now time for him to adorn his life with the 
graces of female companionship, to irradiate the 
gloom which fatigue was apt to hang over the 
intervals of studious labour with the play of 
female fancy, and to secure in this, his culmi- 
nating age, the solace of female tendance for his 
declining years. Hence he determined to aban- 
don himself to the stream of feeling, and per- 
haps was surprised to find what an exceedingly 
shallow rill it was. As in droughty re 2 ions 
baptism by immersion could only be performed 
symbolically, so Mr. Casaubon found that 
sprinkling was the utmost approach to a plunge 
which his stream would afford him ; and he con- 
cluded that the poets had much exaggerated 'the 
force of masculine passion." 

But Dorothea sees no shortcomings. 
She supplies all that is wanting out of the 
wealth of her own imagination. 

** She filled up all blanks with unmanifested 
perfections, interpreting him as she interpreted 
the works of Providence, and accounting for 
seeming discords by her own deafness to the 
higher harmonies. And there are many blanks 
left in the weeks of courtship whioh a loving 
faith fills with happy assurance." 

She is content, therefore, with the most 
imperfect utterances of the idol which sh 



has set op. She even smothers her nat- 
ural disappointment when, in response to 
her enthusiasm about model cottages, he 
^diverts the talk to the extremely narrow 
accommodation which was to be had in the 
dwellings of the ancient Egyptians. 1 ' The 
author sums up this form of hero-worship, 
which meets us in so many shapes, in one 
of those terse and frequent sentences with 
which these volumes, like their predeces- 
sors, abound. 

" What believer sees a disturbing omission or 
infelicity? The text, whether of prophet or 
poet, expands for whatever we can put into it, 
tad even his bad grammar is sublime." 

Once, indeed, the veil is half-lifted from 
her eyes, and a casual remark from her 
future husband, which he lets fall in the 
most complete unconsciousness of all that 
it reveals, jars painfully upon her woman's 
feeling. It has been settled that they are 
to go as far as Rome on their wedding 
journey. Mr. Casaubon has some literary 
researches to make in the Vatican. Celia 
has declined to accompany them, nor does 
Dorothea herself desire it ; her visions of 
fotare happiness and usefulness are fully 
self-sofficient for her. But Mr. Casaubon 
ii disappointed — on her account, of course. 

14 * You will have many lonely hours, Doro- 
thea, for I shall be constrained to make the ut- 
most use of my time during our stay in Borne, 
and I shall feel more at liberty if you had a 

"The words * I should feel more at liberty ' 
gnted on Dorothea. For the first time in speak- 
ing to Mr. Casaubon she coloured from annoy* 

'You must have misunderstood me very 
■men,* she said. * if you think I should not en- 
ter into the value of your time; if you think 
that 1 should not willingly give' up whatever in- 
terfered with your using it to the best purpose.' " 

Bat when she goes up to dress for din- 
ner, she reproaches herself for the irrita- 
tion she has felt, and for the tone in which 

ihe had answered him. 


M • Sorely I am in a strangely selfish weak 
Kate of mind,' she said to herself. * How can I 
hare a husband who is* so much above me, 
without knowing that he needs me much less 

So they are married ; to the discom- 
fiture of poor Sir James Chettara, who 
bears his defeat, however, with very sen- 
sible philosophy ; to the dismay of good 
Mr. Brooke, who has to fall back for sup- 
port upon his convictions of the general 
incomprehensibility of woman ; to the 
great disgust of Celia, who is more than 
ever confirmed in her antipathy to " no- 

tions/' and is likely to have an uncom- 
fortable recollection, for some time after 
the wedding, of the very free strictures 
which she has passed* upon the bride- 
groom ; and to the entire disapproval 
of a certain Mrs. Cadwallader, wife of 
another rector in the neighbourhood, 
who has great confidence in her capacity 
for regulating the affairs of her neigh- 
bours generally, and especially in the mat- 
ter of match-making. 

The marriage turns out not more hap- 
pily than might be expected. Not that it 
leads to any domestic catastrophe ; the 
hand from which " Middlemarch " comes 
does not require to work that kind of pop- 
ular material up into the story. But 
Casaubon is unlovable ; unlovable by any 
possibility of woman's manifold nature, as 
poor Dorothea presently discovers. Un- 
lovable, because he has no capacity in him- 
self for loving anything except his pro- 
jected book, and finds his young wife, ex- 
cept as a reader and amanuensis, a posi- 
tive embarrassment.. Yet none the less 
will the thoughtful reader regard him, in 
spite of his narrow selfishness and hard- 
ness, with great pity. For upon him, no 
less than upon Dorothea, the truth is 
breaking by slow degrees, that the great 
idea of nis life is a hopeless failure. The 
secret gnawing mistrust of his own powers, 
which creeps over him like a slow paraly- 
sis ; the suspicion that the row of close- 
filled note-books, the darling interest and 
occupation of a life, will never in his hands 
take connected shape, that he has mistaken 
the diligence of a collector for the genius 
of an author, and that even if his ability 
were equal to the task, still the literary 
world has been going on while he has 
been lingering — that his researches have 
been anticipated by more modern scholars, 
and that in all his elaborate disquisitions 
he is but fighting in argument against the 
ghosts of long-exploded errors — all this 
is as bitter a mortification to the student 
as the disenchantment of her illusions is 
to the young wife. Selfish pedant though 
he be, we cannot help but pity him; 
especially when he sees, or thinks he sees, 
that this keen-eyed enthusiast, whom lie 
has married to be a helpmeet in a very 
unusual sense, is becoming a silent critic 
of his incapacity. He suddenly begins to 
look upon her as " a personification of that 
shallow world which surrounds the ill- 
appreciated and desponding author." 
There has come upon the scene too, in 
order further to trouble his literary peace, 
a young cousin whom he has half-adopted, 
and to whom he has offered to give a start 



in life in any career to which his choice 
may lead him. But to Will Ladislaw, 
mercurial iu temperament and indolent in 
practice, choice of a career is the most 
difficult thing in the world. An amateur 
painter, he has been hanging about the 
studios in Rome during the Casaubons' 
visit there, and, by virtue of his relation- 
ship, has established an intimacy with 
Dorothea of quite an innocent kind, but of 
which Mr. Casaubon is in a certain sense 
and half-unconBciously jealous. The young 
man is not fond of his elderly cousin, in 
spite — or possibly because — of his pe- 
cuniary obligations to him, and to him it 
seems "too intolerable that Dorothea 
phould be worshipping this husband,' 1 who 
is far from a divinity in his eyes. He lets 
fall some words about English scholarship 
being behind the rest of the world, and 
Mr. Casaubon's misfortune in not reading 


Toung Mr. Ladislaw was not at all deep 
himself in German writers; but very little 
achievement is required in order to pity another 
man's shortcomings." 

Dorothea loyally defends her husband, 
and Ladislaw is piqued into still more 
disrespectful utterances. He talks about 
students who only "of awl a little way 
after men of the last century, and correct 
their mistakes — living in a lumber-room, 
and furbishing up broken-legged theories 
about Chus and Misraim." 

44 * How can you speak so lightly T * said Dor- 
othea, with a look between sorrow and anger. 
* If it were as you say, what eould be sadder 
than so much ardent labour all in vain T . . . 
Indeed, I am wrong altogether. Failure after 
long perseverance is much grander than never 
to have a striving good enough to be called a 
failure.' " 

But the arrow thus launched remains 
fixed in the wound. Still, Dorothea's na- 
ture is too noble for it to have any effect 
upon her loyalty to her husband. Her 
eyes become opened painfully, not only to 
her own illusion, but to her husband's also. 
" She felt the waking of a presentiment 
that there might be a sad consciousness in 
his life which made as great a need on his 
side as on her own." 

The closing scenes of Casaubon's life, 
made more anxious and hopeless by the 
presence of the fatal disease which, as both 
he and his young wife know each in their 
secret hearts, may cut it short at any 
moment, are described in masterly fashion. 
Few authors could have succeeded in mak- 
ing us understand the selfish egoism of 
the antiquated scholar, and the high-souled 

sacrifice which the wife still makes to- 
duty after her brighter dream has for ever 
disappeared, without rousing our indigna- 
tion against the cold and unsympatbizing 
husband. But it is done ; and the hard- 
ness in which he locks himself up against 
all attempts at sympathy on Dorothea's 
part only increases the pathos of his lonely 
despondency. The barrier which disparity 
of every kind has thrown up between the 
two, is described with a wonderful power 
of thoughtful analysis, and in language 
which demands in return no little thought 
from the reader, so pregnant with meaning 
is every phrase. 

•• She nursed him, she read to him, she antic- 
ipated his wants, and was solicitous about his 
feelings; but there had entered into tbe hus- 
band's mind the certainty that she judged him, 
and that her wifely devotedness was like a peni- 
tential expiation of unbelieving thoughts — was 
accompanied with a power of comparison by 
which himself and his doings were seen too lu- 
minously as a part of things in general. His 
discontent passed vapour-like through all her 
gentle loving manifestations, and clang to that 
inappreoiative world which she had only brought 
nearer to him. 

44 Poor Mr. Casaubon! This suffering was 
the harder to bear because it seemed like a be- 
trayal: the young oreature who had worshipped 
him with perfect trust bad quickly turned into 
the critical wife; and early instances of criticism 
and resentment had made an impression whioh 
no tenderness and submission afterwards could 
remove. To his suspicious interpretation Doro- 
thea's silence now was a suppressed rebellion : a 
remark from her which he had not in any way 
anticipated was an assertion of conscious supe- 
riority; her gentle answers hud an irritating 
cautiousness in them: and when she acquiesced 
it was a self-approved effort of forbearance. 
The tenacity with whioh he strove to hide this 
inward drama made it the more vivid for him; 
as we hear with the more keenness what we 
wish others not to hear." 

We learn to see, with Dorothea's eyes, 
" the lonely labour, the ambition breathing 
hardly under the pressure of self-distrust ; 
the goal receding and the heavier limbs ; 
and now at last the sword trembling visi- 
bly above him. 

We have lingered over a portion of the 
book which develops most remarkably the 
writer's powers, and we prefer to leave 
the future of Dorothea Casaubon to be 
sought out by our readers in the volumes 
themselves. Her discarded suitor, Sir 
James Chettam, who is by no means the 
kind of person to break his heart for any 
woman, consoles himself in very brief 
space by transferring his affections to the 
younger sister, Celia. And that placid 



and prosaic young lady is much too ration- 
al to allow his passing preference for 
Dorothea to stand in the way of an ar- 
rangement which she feels will be more 
suitable for all parties. The baronet, 
indeed, like a true gentleman, maintains a 
ehivalric loyalty to the lady who waa none 
the less worthy of his lore because she 
could not accept it. He always continues 
to think Dorothea "a noble woman," who 
"ought to have been a queen ; " an 
opinion which Celia receives with much 
complacency. "It was very well/' she 
thought, " for Sir James to say so, but he 
would not have been comfortable with 
Dodo," — in which belief she was un- 
doubtedly right. 

The course of the story takes us very 
much into the borough-town of Middle- 
march, and the provincial magnates who 
make up society there. And here, we 
need hardly say, the peculiar and inimitable 
force with which, avoiding everything like 
caricature, " George Eliot v brings before 
as the characteristics of English middle- 
class life is fully exemplified. It may be 
that those smoother and more refined 
circles in which everything is cut, more or 
less, to an artificial and uniform pattern, 
and where few things are more dreaded 
than the imputation of oddity, present 
lest attractive matter to an original artist ; 
siace one modern drawing-room scene and 
conversation may be and is multiplied by 
fifty in our popular novels with but very 
slight modifications. But it is also clear 
that this writer has a special faculty of 
observation, and a special taste for the re- 
production of the salient features of coun- 
try town and village life, with a quick per- 
ception both of the humour and the pathos 
vhh which it abounds. And when we get 
fairly into the town, and are admitted to 
the hospitable board of Mrs. Vincy, the 
mayor's wife (herself an innkeeper's daugh- 
ter, though she has a son at Oxford affect- 
ing expensive society and spending his 
money therein, as innkeepers' grandsons 
are rather apt to do), or when we are set 
down at old invalid Mr. Featherstone's 
churlish fireside, we feel that we have got 
into a fresher atmosphere and more amus- 
ing company, even if not quite so select as 
Mr,. Fred Vincy the Oxonian might desire. 
There are a dozen rapid dashes of charac- 
ter among these Middle march notabilities, 
whose sayings and doings occupy but a 
very few pages here and there in the 
volumes, but each with individuality 
enough thrown into them to set up an in- 
dustrious writer with characters for three 
or four separate novels, if h* carefully 

worked them out. Not that these people 
aro what are sometimes called "charac- 
ters " or " originals " at all ; they have no 
eccentricities of behaviour, and no recur- 
rent phrases or turns of speech at which 
we are expected to laugh every time they 
appear on the scene. 

Take, for instance, those brief sketches 
of Dr. Sprague and Dr. Minchin, the rival 
practitioners, who "concealed with much 
etiquette their contempt for each other's 
skill." There is nothing out of the way 
about these men — a dozen country towns 
might furnish the originals ; the value of 
the drawing lies simply in the touch of the 
artist's hand. 

** Dr. Sprague was more than suspected of 
having no religion ; but somehow Middlemaroh 
tolerated this deficiency in him at if he had 
been a Lord Chancellor ; indeed, it is proba- 
ble that his professional weight was the more 
believed in, the old-world association of clever- 
ness with the evil prinoiple being still potent in 
the minds of even lady-patients who had the 
strictest ideas of frilling and sentiment . . . 
On this ground it was (professionally speaking) 
fortunate for Dr. Minchin that his religious sym- 
pathies were of a general kind, and such as gave 
a distant medical sanction to all serious senti- 
ment whether of Church or Dissent, rather than 
any adhesion to particular tenets. .... Dr. 
Minchin was soft-handed, pale-complexioned, 
and of rounded outline, not to be distinguished 
from a mild clergyman in appearance: whereas 
Dr. Sprague was superfluously tall; his trou- 
sers got creased at the knees, and showed an ex- 
cess of boot at a time when straps seemed neces- 
sary to any dignity of bearing; you beard him 
go in and out, and up and down, as if be had 
come to see after the roofing. In short, he had 
weight, and might be expected to grapple with 
a disease and throw it; while Dr. Minchin 
might be better able to detect it lurking and to 
circumvent it" 

The curious thing about all these sketches 
is that they are people whom most of us 
have known under some other name, only 
we failed to catch the humorous aspect of 
their being. We thought them prosaic, 
not to say vulgar; when, lol they were 
full of poetry, — to the poet. Mr. Stan- 
dish, the old lawyer, " who had been so 
long concerned with the landed gentry that 
he had become landed himself," and 
brought out his " by G— " "in a deep- 
mouthed manner, as a sort of armorial 
bearings, stamping the speech of a man 
who held a good position ;" Mr. Chichely, 
the middle-aged bachelor, " who had a com- 
plexion somewhat like an Easter egg, a few 
hairs carefully arranged, and a carriage im- 
plying the consciousness of a distinguished 
appearance ; " who thinks there should al- 



ways be "a little devil in a woman" — 
" his study of the fair sex seeming to have 
been detrimental to his theology ; " who 
shakes his head meaningly when it is sugr 
gested to him to " make up " to Miss Vincy 
— implying that " he was not going to in- 
cur the certainty of being accepted by the 
woman he should choose : " Mr. Bambridge 
the horse-dealer, " loud, robust, and some- 
times spoken of as being * given to indul- 
gence' — chiefly in swearing, drinking, and 
beating his wife," — t( the minute re ten - 
tiveness of whose memory was chiefly 
shown about the horses he had himself 
bought and sold, the number of miles they 
would trot you in no time without turning 
a hair, being, after the lapse of years, still 
a subject of passionate asseveration " (if 
Mr. Bambridge's rich fund of anecdote 
and illustration is not poetry, we have no 
poetry left) ; Mr. Horrock the " vet," cyni- 
cal and silent, whose critical judgment, " if 
you could be ever fortunate enough to 
know it, would be the thing, and no other ; " 
Mr. Trumbull the auctioneer, with whom 
" things never began, but always com- 
menced, both in private life and on his 
handbills," and who " would have liked to 
have had the universe under his hammer, 
feeling sure it would go at a higher figure 
for bis recommendation ; " — why, we have 
all met the very men in the course of our 
wanderiugs up and down, and never till 
now saw anything worth special remark in 
them. They are like the little " bits " of 
scenery you pass on every turnpike road ; 
an artist comes that way, takes out his pa- 
lette, dashes a few streaks of moist colour 
on his rough paper, and you have a result 
which even your inartistic eyes can appre- 
ciate, though you did not know before that 
the picturesque was there. 

It is very noteworthy how many of the 
best novels of the present day touch with 
more or less distinctiveness upon questions 
of religious belief. We set aside, of 
course, those many stories — some excel- 
lent of their kind, others the veriest rub- 
bish — which are confessedly stories with 
a purpose, written to advocate some fa- 
vourite view, in which the illustration of 
certain theological tenets is of the very es- 
sence of the book. In these, if we only 
know the name of the writer — sometimes 
a fairly accurate guess may be arrived at \ 
by merely glancing at that of the publish- 
er — the reader is enabled at once to fore- 
cast the kind of fare which is provided for 
him, and will proceed to read or not to 
read according as his bias may incline him. 
But even in those which assume no such 
didactic office, and whose writers would 

fairly repudiate any such design as prose- 
lytism, the great problems of religion, in- 
stead of being tacitly ignored or disguised 
in vague generalities, are assumed as hav- 
ing a momentous influence upon human 
life. They are not brought prominently 
into the foreground, perhaps, but they are 
evidently present to the mind of the writer 
as elements of grave importance. If our 
generation be indeed so irreverent and ir- 
religious as it is said to be, the traces of 
character are not to be found in our high- 
est works of fiction. If there is scepticism 
in them, it is scepticism in the better sense 
of the word. The doubts are those of the 
honest doubter ; the questioning is not of 
a sneering or captious kind, but has the 
earnest tone of the inquirer who seeks an 
answer. Even if prevalent forms of be- 
lief are sometimes held up somewhat rude- 
ly to the light, and shown to be hero and 
there but thread-bare spiritual raiment, it 
is without prejudice to the living body of 
truth which they are intended to clothe. 

This is peculiarly the case with the 
works of the writer whose last production 
lies before us. Theological colour these 
volumes have none. Professions of a 
creed' may seem to be even purposely 
avoided. But no one can say that their 
tone is other than reverent on religious 
questions. The unrealities of religion, 
whether they take the shape of formal act 
or fluent profession, are touched with a 
satire whose lash is not the less cutting 
because it is laid on with the most delicate 
wrist-play. People " whose celestial inti- 
macies seem not to improve their domestic 
manners,"' who contrive (> to conciliate 
piety and worldliness, the nothingness of 
this life and the desirability of cut glass, 
the consciousness at once of filthy rags 
and the best damask," find no mercy here. 
And whether the old miser Peter Feather- 
stone seeks, as he declares in his will, " to 
please God Almighty " by building alms- 
houses, or Mr. Bulstrode attempts " an act 
of restitution which may move Divine 
Providence to avert painful consequences," 
the touch of honest scorn in the brief 
phrases is more effective than a homily. 
And nowhere read where we will, shall wo 
find less religious narrowness, or a fuller 
confession of the spiritual needs of human 
nature. Indeed, the cry of the soul after 
something more satisfying than the mere 
husks of worldly well-doing and success 
seems uttered in these volumes with an in- 
tensity which is almost painful. True, we 
have no distinct ideal set up and recom- 
mended as really attainable ; rather — 
and this gives to the work that remarkable 



tinge of melancholy which has been re- 
marked, in spite of all their grace and hu- 
mour, in most of it* predecessors from the 
same hand — we are allowed to gather 
that for the most part ideals are unattaina- 
ble, and that the highest aspirations only 
serve to give a grandeur to the failure in 
which they inevitably end. We have been 
forcibly reminded, as we read, of the tone 
of thought which runs through several of 
those most remarkable sermons of Fred- 
erick Robertson — that all life is in one 
»ense an illusion and a failure : and that 
the Highest Life on earth was, to outward 
seeming, a notorious failure. Take the 
characters in these volumes: all who set 
before them an object in life higher than 
their fellows, fail in its attainment. Ca- 
saubon is a failure, Dorothea is a failure, 
Lydgate is a failure more than all. It 
might seem, at first thought, as though the 
moral were as cynical as this — if you 
would escape disappointment, you must 
not seek to rise above the level of your 
fellow-creatures. It is Celia, with her 
kitten-like content and hatred of " no- 
tions," — Sir James Chettam, who " doesn't 
go much into ideas," — Will Ladislaw, 
with his amiable vagabond dilettantism, 
who looks upon all forms of prescribed 
works as «• harness," and holds genius to 
be u necessarily intolerant of fetters," — 
Fred Vincy, with his goodhumoured gen- 
tlemanlike selfishness, — who come out, 
on the whole, with the largest share of 
commonplace happiness. But we are 
moeh mistaken if such be the moral which 
the author — if any moral be intended or 
permissible — would have us draw. The 
lines may be read another way. To have 
an ideal at which we aim, and that ideal 
of the highest kind, is the worthy life and 
the true life, though not of necessity 
that which attains its object or wins con- 
tent. It is better to fail than to succeed, 
if the aim has been noble in the one case, 
and mean in the other. Our full sym- 
pathies remain with the aspirants in their 
failures — even because of their failures 
— not with the lower natures in. their 
placid ruminant life. We feel no shadow 
of regret for Dorothea's loss of her posi- 
tion as the lady of Lowick Manor, though 
we cannot accept without some disap- 
pointment her descent from her pedestal 
to the level of ordinary humanity, to be 
only "known in a certain circle as a wife 
and mother ; " and we agree sadly with 
Lydgate in regarding himself as a failure, 
when he gets into extensive practice, and 
the receipt of an excellent income, and is 
credited by all his friends and acquaint- 

ances with the possession of a very charm- 
ing wife. 

it is somewhat singular to find a writer 
whose line of thought is so distinctly mod- 
ern, learning with so much evident toler- 
ance, if not with favour, towards that type 
of old English churchmanship which has 
become almost a byword of reproach 
among the more active and critical spirits 
of our own day. There is the same gentle 
dealing with the old-fashioned church par- 
son which we found in " Adam Bede," and 
in "The Mill on the Floss/' Mr. Fare- 
brother, the by no means pattern vicar of 
St. Botolph's, but for whom nevertheless 
our sympathies are strongly enlisted, is 
cast in very much the same mould, allow- 
ing for these specific differences which an 
artist whose figures are never servilely re- 
peated knows how to make, as the Mr. 
Irwine of " Adam Bede." Farebrother 
has more weakness, but more ability. 
The author of this remarkable series of 
novels has no sympathy with those who 
denounce what they have been pleased to 
term "the gentleman heresy"; meaning 
thereby that to be a gentleman is no part 
of the qualification for a clergyman's 
office, and may possibly be a hindrance to 
his work. * We believe that, so far as Eng- 
lish feeling is concerned, whether among 
rich or poor, no mistake could possibly 
be greater ; and that, next to those more 
solemn essentials which fit a man for such 
a vocation, the delicate tact and high- 
mindedness in little things, which mark 
the character of the true gentleman, are 
qualities especially needed in the difficult 
relations into which the town or country 
parson is being continually brought with 
his people. For men who become clergy- 
men merely " for gentility's sake," the 
author of " Middlemarch " has very little 
indulgence, — dismissing one of them in 
the indignant words of honest Mary 
Garth, " What right have such men to rep- 
resent Christianity V as if it were an insti- 
tution for getting up idiots genteelly 1 " 
But to find any favour in these volumes 
they must be gentlemen in the best sense, 
whatever else they may be : — 

11 • I don't say that Farebrother is apostolic,' 
said Lydgate. ' His position is not quite like 
that of the Apostles; he is only a parson among 
parishioners whose lives he has to try and make 
better. Praotioally, I find that what is called 
being apostolio now is an impatience of every- 
thing in whioh the parson does not out the prin- 
cipal figure. I see something of that in Mr. 
, Tyke at the hyspital; a good deal of his dootrine 
I is a sort of pinching hard to make people un- 
1 comfortably aware of him.' " 



The appreciation shown by this writer 
for all that was good— and there was 
much — m the clergy of the old school, 
includes also a kindly though critical rem- 
iniscence of the external aspect which the 
Church and its services presented in their 
day. Here, as before, the churches into 
which we are carried are not the "re- 
stored " and beautiful buildings with 
which we are all now so familiar in fiction 
as well as in fact, but the " white-washed 
walls and dark old pews," and " little gal- 
lery over the vestry/ 1 in which the parish 
choir sing the good old tune of " Hanover." 
The date of the story — in the days of 
"Mr. Peel" — will of course account in 
some degree for the style of the picture ; 
but the touches are evidently all put in 
with a loving hand. If we are made to 
smile at the homeliness of the group, it is 
a smile of a very kindly sort, and there is 
no more sneer intended than was in Addi- 
son's mind when he showed us Sir Roger 
de Coverley allowing no one to go to sleep 
in church but himself. A certain provin- 
cial architectural society, in one' of those 
" progresses " now so common in searcjh of 
objects of interest, visited amongst other 

El ace 8 a village church which had lately 
een in the hands of the architect. The 
president — - a considerable antiquarian 
authority — got up into the pulpit, and 
began, as was usual, to deliver a kind of 
running lecture on the chief points of in- 
terest in the building. To the horror and 
disappointment of the zealous rector, who 
had spared neither money nor pains upon 
the work of renovation, he began his re- 
marks as follows : " We have here before 
us, gentlemen, one of the most uninter- 
esting objects to antiquarian eyes — a 
thoroughly restored church." One can 
quite conceive that to the author of 
•* Middlemarcb," though for a somewhat 
different reason, the hand of the modern 
restorer who has doubtless by this time 
duly scraped off the whitewash, and cut 
down the dark old pews, and disestablished 
the singing gallery in Lowick church, will 
have seemed to have been guilty of almost 
as ruthless a sacrilege as the enemy who 
in older times broke down all the carved 
work with axes and hammers. Some of 
us retain cherished reminiscences, tender 
as well as picturesque, even of the unre- 
generate church architecture and church 
order of our childhood ; and to destroy 
them is like rubbing off the precious rust 
from the collector's relic. 

Something of the same feeling may also 
be traced, here as in the author's previous 
volumes, in that intense appreciation of 

midland couuty scenery — so prosaic in 
the estimation of strangers, so heartily en- 
joyable to those who are most familiar 
with it — which shows itself in passages 
like the following ; — 

" The ride to Stone Court lay through a 
pretty bit of midland landscape, almost all 
meadows and pastures, with hedgerows still al- 
lowed to grow in bushy beauty and to spread 
out coral fruit for the birds. Little details gave 
each field a particular physiognomy, dear to the 
eyes that have looked on them from childhood: 
the pool in tho corner where the grasses were 
dank and trees leaned whisperingly; the great 
oak shadowing a bare place in mid-pasture; the 
high bank where, the ash-trees grew; the sud- 
den slope of the old marl-pit making a red back- 
ground for the burdock; the huddled roofs and 
ricks of the homestead without a traceable way 
of approach; the grey gate and fences against 
the depths of the bordering wood; and the stray 
hovel, its old, old thatch full of mossy hills and 
valleys with wondrous modulations of light and 
shadow such as we travel far to see in later life, 
and see larger, but none more beautiful. These 
are the things that make the gamut of joy in 
landscape to midland-bred souls — the things 
they toddled among, or perhaps learned by heart 
standing between their fathers knees while he 
drove leisurely." 

Perhaps the ablest analysis of character 
in this book is that of Bulstrode, the u evan- 
gelical" banker. To paint in glaring 
colours the sanctimonious hypocrite is easy 
enough for a very ordinary artist, and we 
have had him set before us under various 
'names, from Maw worm downwards, until 
we have become almost sick of the portraits 
as we should be of the original, if we met 
him in actual life — which, be it observed, 
we very rarely do. But Mr. Bulstrode is 
not of this coarse type. He is not, in the 
ordinary sense of the word, a hypocrite at 
all ; he does not wear a mere outward . 
mask of spirituality. So far as intense be- 
lief in an unseen world and a controlling 
Providence, and a real personal interest 
in what he conceives to be, as he phrases 
it, " for God's glory," he is sincere enough. 
It is this which redeems him at his worst 
from our contempt and disgust, even while 
we shudder at what we feel to be his blas- 
phemous paltering with conscience. The 
man is religious, — miserably and super- 
stitiously so. He is a character much 
more natural, and probably much more 
common, than the Pharisee of ordinary fic- 
tion. To enter into the feelings of such 
natures must always be difficult for a com 
monly honest mind ; but the* dissection of 
such a man's inner conscience, which we 
have here made for us with the remarkable 
skill of this moral anatomist, has at least 



all the vraisemblanc* of an operation per- 
formed upon the actual human subject. 
That entire separation of religion, so called, 
from the human duties of life is seldom 
perhaps so complete as we have it here 
represented; men do not often confess it 
even to their secret selves ; but there can 
be no doubt as to its being, for sordid 
minds, the most fascinating of all heresies. 
We should be very sorry to appear to cast 
even the shadow of an unfair reflection 
upon a class ; but it would almost seem as 
if that special bias towards a theology more 
or less antinomian which is largely observ- 
able in the tradesman class — to a far 
greater extent than in any other class 
■hove or below, is not purely accidental, 
bat that it is a preference arising distinctly 
oat of the circumstances of their life. Find- 
ing such doctrines, or doctrines which ap- 
pear the same, maintained by theologians 
of repute, and pushed to the extreme by 
modern teachers who hare inherited their 
terminology without the spirituality, they 
have adopted them honestly as best meet- 
ing their own difficulties. Few will reason 
themselves directly into the state of mind 
which is here attributed to Mr Dunkirk, 
the thieves' pawn-broker, who " had never 
conceived that trade had anything to do 
with salvation ; " but a good many men, 
who are by no means hypocrites in the 
grosser sense, act indireetly upon some 
inch belief. This description of the Mid- 
dlemarch banker's state of mind is one 
which might serve perhaps as the unveil- 
ing of more than one nature in which the 
same contradiction is at work : — 

" There may be coarse hypocrites, who con- 
sciously affect beliefs and emotions for the sake 
of galling the world, but Bulstrode was not one 
of them. He was simply a man whose desires 
sad been stronger than his theoretic beliefs, and 
who had gradually explained the gratification 
of bis desires into satisfactory agreement with 
these beliefs. If this be hypocrisy, it is a pro- 
cess which shows itself occasionally in us all, to 
whatever confession we belong, and whether we 
btneve in the future perfection of our race or in 
the nearest date fixed for the end of the world; 
whether we regard the earth as a putrefying 
sides for a saved remnant, including ourselves, 
or have a passionate belief in the solidarity of 

" The service he could do to the cause of re- 
ligion had been through life the ground he al- 
leged to himself for his choice of action : it had 
been the motive which he had poured oat in his 

Cvers. Who would use money and position 
ter than he meant to use them T Who could 
sjrpass him in self-abhorrence and exaltation of 
God's cause? And to Mr. Bulstrode God's 
was something distinct from his own reo- 

titode of oondaot : it enforced a discrimination 
of God's enemies, who were to be used merely 
as instruments, and whom it would be as well 
if possible to keep out of money and consequent 
influence. Also, profitable investments in trades 
where the power of the prince of this world 
showed its most active devices, became sancti- 
fied by a right application of the profits in the 
hands of God's servant 

M This implicit reasoning is essentially no 
more peculiar to evangelical belief than the use 
of wide phrases for narrow motives is peculiar 
to Englishmen. There is no general doctrine 
which is not capable of eating oat oar morality 
if unchecked by the deep-seated habit of direct 
fellow-feeling with individual fellow-men. 1 


There was an " Occasional Sermons 
Bill," as it was called, brought into the 
House last session, and quickly disposed 
of; not being, as some long-suffering hear- 
ers might have fondly hoped, a bill to 
make sermons only " occasional," instead 
of inevitable as at present, but to allow 
laymen to preach them " on occasion." It 
was found that, whether occasionally or 
constantly, the public would, on the whole, 
prefer the regular practitioner. But if 
preachers were to arise from among the 
laity who could deal with men's conscien- 
ces with something of the power which is 
shown from time to time in these pages, 
one would be fflad that they should preach 
in St. Paul's Cathedral or at Paul's Cross, 
or at wherever they could get the largest 

The mental struggle of this man Bul- 
strode with his great temptation — which 
we will not anticipate for the reader — is 
described with wonderful power. How, 
when disgrace appears to be imminent, he 
" in vain said to himself that, if permitted, 
it would be a divine visitation, a chastise- 
ment, a burning ; but he recoiled from the 
imagined burning, and he judged that it 
must be more for the divine glory that he 
should escape dishonour;" how he prays 
" that if it were possible the rest of his days 
here below might be freed from the threat 
of an ignominy which would break him ut- 
terly as an instrument of God's service." 
In the very crisis of his temptation he 
rises and spends "some time in private 
prayer." Do we wonder that it is neither 
a prayer that the temptation may be re- 
moved, nor that a way may be made for 
him to escape ? We are answered by the 
author in these remarkable words : — 

" Does any one suppose that private prayer 
is necessarily candid — necessarily goes to the 
roots of action T Private prayer is inaudible 
speech, and speech is representative; who can 



represent himself just as be is, even in his own 
reflections? " 

We must leave our readers to study for 
themselves the episode which we have 
here only briefly touched upou, and which, 
while eutirely free from all sensational in- 
cident, or any of those artifices by which, 
in ordinary works of fiction, interest is 
sought to be excited and maintained, is to 
our view the most powerful part of these 
volumes. But we mast just remark how 
simply and beautifully the author has 
given vlb the true solution of all that " re- 
ligious " casuistry which marks the con- 
flict in the soul of Bulstrode, in a few 
words put into the mouth of Caleb Garth, 

— slow in speech, but quick in moral per- 

" ' You are a conscientious man, Mr. Garth 

— a man, I trust, who feels himself accounta- 
ble to God. You would not wish to injure me 
by being too ready to believe a slander,' said 
Bulstrode, casting about for pleas that might be 
adapted to his hearer's mind. 

*• ' I would injure no man if I could help it,' 
said Caleb; ' even if I thought God winked at 

A second love-story is worked out in 
these volumes with a wonderful power of 
insight into that pathetic tragedy which so 
often underlies the surface of the most 
commonplace life. It is the perfect con- 
tradictory of poor Dorothea s romance. 
The dreamer of dreams, in this second 
case, is the gentleman and not the lady. 
The town of Middlemarch has been some- 
what excited, in its quiet way, by the ad- 
vent of 'a young surgeon — a Mr. Lydgate 
(" one of the Lydgates of Northumber- 
land, really well connected,* as the Dow- 
ager Lady Chettam observes), a very good 
type of one class — it is much to be wished 
that it were a larger class — of his pro- 
fession. He is clever, well-read, and gen- 
tlemanlike ; " has ideas, you know," says 
Mr. Brooke, " and wants to raise the pro- 
fession." He has in his mind the ideal of 
a wife, as Miss Brooke had of a husband. 
But this ideal he would have, been very 
far from finding in Dorothea. When he 
meetB that young lady at a dinner which 
her uncle gives to some of the Middle- 
march notables, he looks upon her with a 
kind of curious admiratiou. 


Her youthful bloom, with her approaching 
marriage to that faded scholar, and her interest 
in matters socially useful, gave her the piquancy 
of an unusual combination. 

11 * She is a good creature — that floe girl — 
but a little too earnest,' he thought * It is 
troublesome to talk to suoh women. They are 

always wanting reasons, yet they are too igno- 
rant to understand the merits of any question, 
and usually fall back on their moral sense to 
settle things after their own taste.' " 

The lady of his fancy, whom he thinks 
he has already seen, and whose somewhat 
commonplace character he views through 
the same kind of haze as that with which 
Dorothea has surrounded her hero, is a be- 
ing cast in quite another mould. He had not 
yet quite fallen in love ; but he said of that 
particular woman, — " She is grace itself 
— she is perfectly lovely and accomplished. 
That is what a woman ought to be — siie 
ought to produce the effect of exquisite 
music." To adorn her husband's life is his 
view of the mission of woman. 

" Lydgate felt sure that, if ever be married, 
his wife would have that distinctive womanhood 
which must be classed with flowers and music — 
that sort of beauty which by its very nature was 
virtuous, being moulded only for pure and deli* 

• • • . • 

"To his taste, guided by a single conversa- 
tion, here was the point on which Miss Brook© 
would be found wanting, notwithstanding her 
undeniable beauty. She did not look on things 
from the proper feminine angle. The society of 
such women was about as relaxing as going 
from your work to teach the second form* in- 
stead of reclining in a paradise with sweet 
laughs for bird-notes and blue eyes for a 

How far this paradise is ever realized 
for the ambitious young surgeon — how 
far bird-note3 and blue eyes Buffice to 
make a man's heaven on earth — especial- 
ly a man who, like Lydgate, " had meant 
to lead a higher life than the common," — 
we leave to be discovered in the volumes 
which follow. Nor have we space to deal 
with the love fortunes of Fred Vincy and 
Mary Garth, who have no great ideals to 
dazzle or disappoint them ; though we 
may say that this latter young lady be- 
came our own personal favonrite from her 
first appearance, not only from ber uncom- 
promising honesty, and tendency to sho.w 
a little temper, but from a presentiment 
that these plain brown girls, towards the 
end of third volumes, have a tendency to 
improve into something very charming in 
their way. 

The episode of the Middlemarch elec- 
tion reminds us of some of the scenes in 
" Felix Holt." Though the story itself 
dates back to the days of ( * Mr. Feel " and 
the Catholic Question, we see some of the 
political and social problems of our own 
times already casting their shadows be- 



fere them, and they are evidently present 
to the author's mind. No opinions can 
well be less conservative, in one sense, 
than those of the author of " Middle- 
march/ ' if Conservatism means, as its en- 
emies would assert, the maintenance of 
shams and abases. Bat, as all readers of 
"Felix Holt" will remember, George Eli- 
ot's radicalism, if radicalism, it be, is of a 
very unpopular type. No one sees more 
clearly into the hollow ness of political 
clap-trap and declamation. Ladislaw, who 
goes in for what we are now pleased to 
oil purity of election, has to stop his ears 
when he finds that ** the means of enlisting 
the voter's ignorance on the side, of the 
Bill were remarkably similar to the means 
of enlisting it against the Bill. 1 ' Mr. 
Brooke himself is chuckling at the pros- 
pect of promotion in the Church which he 
foresees for Mr. Casaubon, as a reward 
for "a very seasonable pamphlet on the 
Catholic Question." " He little thought," 
says our author, "of the Radical speech 
which he was hereafter to make on the 
incomes of the Bishops." 

M But of Mr. Brooke I make a farther re- 
■srk, — namely, that if he had foreknown his 
speech, it might not have made any great differ- 
ence. To think with pleasure of his niece's 
husband having a large .ecclesiastical income 
was one thing — to make a liberal speech was 
another thing; and it is a narrow mind which 
cannot look at a subject from various points of 

That poor gentleman's feelings, as he 
stands in his •• buff waistcoat, shorts lipped 
blond hair, and neutral physiognomy" 
(have we not all seen him ?) in the balcony 
of the White Hart, and his terrible col- 
lapse, owing chiefly to the unfortunate fact 
which he had himself observed, " that bis 
ideas stood rather in his way when he 
wss speaking" are very amusingly de- 
scribed, and the speech itself is quite a gem 
in its way. Its hopeless floundering and 
good-humoured irrelevancy must appear, 
we should be afraid, to some country gen- 
tlemen who have been in similar difficulties, 
even too painfully real. 

There is one observation which strikes 
us more forcibly in reading these volumes 
than in any others which have come to us 
from the same hand. It is the power 
which the writer shows in awakening, not 
only our interest in, but our sympathies 
with, nearly all the prominent characters 
in the full drama of the story. In most 
novels, there is at least some one creation 
of the author's fancy on whose brightness 
a shadow is seldom allowed to fall, in 
whose cause we become partisans, and 

whose greatest weaknesses are cleverly 
excused. Or, if the hero or heroine are 
not so near perfection in the outset, some 
discipline or other is introduced in the 
course of the story, which in the end com- 
pletes and purines the character. And in 
some sense, if the novelist is to be re- 
garded as a moral teacher, this seems in 
accordance with the fitness of things* "But 
such is by no means the principle upon 
which the author of " Middlemarch" works. 
We find in these volumes nothing of the 
conventional hero or heroine. As, even 
in the most disagreeable oharacters, we 
are shown in almost every instance the 
good that is working in them fitfully here 
and there, so in the portraits of the favour- 
ites the shadows are not left out. The 
only personages in the story with whom 
we are never angry or disappointed are 
those in whom we are never called upon 
to take any very lively interest — who 
have not character enough to involve con- 
tradictions, — such as Sir James Chettam 
and Celia. Dorothea provokes us continu- 
ally in the first book, until we scarcely pity 
her, though we can foresee much of the 
result, when she marries Casaubon ; there 
is an Epicurean selfishness about Lydgate, 
in spite of his nobler aspirations, which 
makes us feel that the lower form of self- 
ishness in others from which he is made to 
suffer has in it something of retributive 
justice; Ladislaw is full of weaknesses 
and irresolution. On the other hand, 
there is no one who acts thoroughly the 
" villain " in the piece ; Rosamond, who 
most rouses our indignation, is after all 
more contemptible than hateful; there is 
no one in whose frustrated designs the 
virtuous reader (what a tribute it is to the 
divinity of righteousness that we all be- 
come so virtuous when wa sit down to 
read !) feels the sort of triumph which 
David proclaims over his enemies. Ca- 
saubon, with all his pedantic narrowness, 
is, perhaps, the most pathetic conception 
in the book ; and when Bulstrode is at last 
exposed and makes his miserable exit, so 
intensely have we been made to feel the 
mental agony and bitter humiliation of the 
man, that we are inclined to take his arm, 
as Lydgate does, and help him to his 
carriage. The creatures are all so in- 
tensely human, even in their baser aspects, 
that in spite of that seven-fold shield of 
virtue behind which we shelter ourselves, 
as has been said, when we sit in judgment 
on the characters of fiction, an honest 
conscience hesitates to cast the stone. 

There is as little of overt love-making 
in these volumes as is consistent with the 



indispensable conditions of modern story- 
telling; but if any readers wish to see 
how gracefully such a subject may be 
treated, let them turn to the scene in the 
library at Lowick Manor, in chapter 83. 

In this, as in all the author'syprevious 
works, there is an embarrassing abundance 
of tempting morsels for extract Some- 
thing purely original, or so quaintly put as 
to make it original, might be found on 
almost every page ; passages on which the 
mind lingers as the eye does on a clever 
picture, long after it has thoroughly taken 
in every detail of the subject. One is 
tempted to half-close the volume from 
time to time, either to indulge a silent 
laugh, or to digest some epigrammatic 
truth which opens a new vein of thought 
within ourselves. In each of these brief 
passages there are materials for an essay 
or a sermon : — 

M Suppose we turn from outside estimates of 
a man, to wonder, with keener interest, what is 
the report of his own consciousness about his 
doings or capacity : with what hindrances he is 
carrying on his daily labours; what fading of 
hopes, or what deeper fixity of self-delusion the 
years are marking off with him; and with what 
spirit he wrestles against universal pressure, 
which will one day be too heavy for him, and 
bring his heart to its final pause. Doubtless his 
lot is important in his own eyes; and the chief 
reason that we think he asks too large a place in 
our consideration must be our want of room for 
him, since we refer him to the Divine regard 
with perfect confidence; nay, it is even .held 
sublime for our neighbour to expect the utmost 
there, however little he may have got from us." 
— Vol. L, p. 144. 

" We do not expect people to be deeply moved 
by what is not unusual. That element of trag- 
edy which lies in the very fact of frequency has 
not yet wrought itself into the coarse emotion 
of mankind : and perhaps our frames could 
hardly bear much of it. If we had a keen 
vision and feeling of all ordinary human life, 
it would be like hearing the grass grow and the 
squirrel's heart beat, and we should die of that 
roar which lies on the other side of silence. As 
it is, the quickest of us walk about well-wadded 
Vith stupidity." — Vol i., p. 851. 

" Character is not cut in marble — it is not 
something solid and unalterable. It is some- 
thing living and ohanging, and may become 
diseased as our bodies do." — VoL iv., p. 182. 

Old Mr. Featherstone's views of the Old 
Testament dispensation are as original, in 
their way, as those of Tennyson's " North- 
ern Parmer " : — 

" There's one thing I made out pretty dear 
when I used to go to church— and it's this: 
God A'mighty sticks to the land. He promises 

land, and He gives land, and He makes oheps 
rich with corn and cattle." 

Solomon Featherstone was "not only 
of much blander temper, but thought him- 
self much deeper than his brother 
Peter:" — 

" Indeed, not likely to be deceived in any of 
his fellow-men, inasmuoh as they could not well 
be more greedy and deceitful than he suspected 
them of being. Even the invisible powers, he 
thought, Were likely to be soothed by a bland 
parenthesis here and there, coming from a man 
of property, who might have been as impious aa 

Mrs. Cadwallader's social creed is stated 
for her in terms which, if they have all the 
severity of finished satire, have yet in 
them a lesson of the widest charity, and 
o( a kind which to many of us is the most 
difficult of all to receive : for it is often 
much more easy to extend indulgence to 
our neighbours* sins than to their social 
deficiencies : — 

" Her feeling towards the vulgar rich 
sort of religious hatred : they had probably 
made all their money out cf high retail prices, 
and Mrs. Cadwallader detested high prices for 
everything that was not paid in kind at the 
Rectory : such people were no part of God's' 
design in making the world; and their accent 
was an affliction to the ears. A town where 
suoh monsters abounded was hardly more than 
a sort of low comedy, whioh could not be taken 
account of in a well-bred scheme of the uni- 
verse. Let any lady who is inclined to be hard 
on Mrs. Cadwallader inquire into the compre- 
hensiveness of her own beautiful views, and be 
quite sure that they afford aooomesodation for 
all the lives whioh have the honour to co-exist 
with hers." 

The Middlemarch interpretation of 
"candour" is probably not confined to 
that town, where it meant the " taking an 
early opportunity to let your friends know 
that you did not take a cheerful view of 
their capacity, their conduct, or their posi- 
tion." Nor is Mrs. Waule's notion or the 
absurdity of using ceremony between 
blood relations peculiar to that lady ; " ahe 
was accustomed to think that entire free- 
dom from the necessity of behaving agree- 
ably was included in the Almighty's inten- 
tions about families." 

One brief extract more, and we will 
close the volumes. It is a little sermon, 
containing more than many long ones, up- 
on a text from the " Pilgrim's Progress " 
— a passage from the trial of Faithful, 
which stands as a motto to the last chapter 
but one : — 



" When immortal Banyan make* his picture 
cf tbe persecuting passions bringing in their 
verdict of guiltj, who pities Faithful T That is 
• rare and blessed lot whieh some greatest men 
tot not attained, to know ourselves guiltless 
brave a condemning crowd — to be sure that 
that we are denounced for is solely the good in 
si The pitiable lot is that of the man who 
enld aot call himself a martyr even though he 
Stre to persuade himself that tbe men who 
stoned him were but ugly passions incarnate — 
via knows that he is stoned, not for professing 
As Bight, bat for not being the man he pro- 
' to be." 

So we take oar leave of a work which, 

I if it stood alone, would have made an era 
in the literature of fiction. Following, as 
it does, a series of acknowledged master- 
pieces from the same band, which gave a 
new character to the English " novel/' it 
would have been much to have been able 
to say that it maintained the reputation of 
its author. But we shall be surprised if 
the mature judgment passed upon it by 
those who can appreciate tbe work of a 
true artist — and we will admit that these 
may not be tbe majority of mere novel 
readers — does not pronounce it the most 
perfect of the series. 

Hakvbt-Homk. — In 1845, when Captain 
Xsrrjat was a" gentleman farmer, at Langham, 
Norfolk, he thus described a harvest-home cus- 
tom to a friend : — 


"To-morrow the men have a harvest-home 
diaser, and the next day they put apart to get 
freak; such being the invariable oustom of 
the country. I proposed last year that they 
isoaU get drunk on the day of the harvest 
dinner, but they scouted the idea — they would 
toe s day for intoxication entirely. Such was 
tbe custom. It was true that they would lose 
ft daj's wages, bat they mast do as their fore- 
ntbers had always done before them." 

Notes and Queries. 

Tbi American Government may point with 
pride to the success of the new Indian policy 
vtieh has been in force nearly two years. The 
Indian* have begun to work on the reserves se- 
osred to them by the Government, and have 
Bade greater advances in civilisation than oould 
lave been supposed possible in the time. The 
White Earth reserve, where the soil is adapted 
for farming, supports about 1,000 Indians. 
Many have east aside their blankets and out 
tWr hair. Over 100 booses are building or 
built, in which a large part of the work is done 
fay the Indiana. This year they had on that one 
nsBrve 140 acres of wheat and many more 
of potatoes and garden products; they have 
260 head of cattle, besides horses and hogs; 
toe is a saw-mill cutting from 15,000 to 
20,000 feet of lumber daily, ran by a dozen 
hdkas under the direction of one white man; 
two fine buildings accommodate a boarding 
Kaoolwith seventy scholars and four teachers; 
•ad In a comfortable chapel built by the Episco- 
palians a Chippewa preacher gathers every Son- 


day a congregation of sixty to a hundred. " One 
has only to see," says an eye-witness, the " con- 
scious pride with which men who, a year ago, 
were worthless savages, drive their oxen, and 
point to their gardens and houses to be con- 
vinced of the strong bold the new life has upon 
them.*' There are no complete mortality rec- 
ords of the population on the reserves, but it is 
believed that the Indians are not now decreasing 
in numbers, in spite of a circumstance whioh 
makes their advance in civilisation a matter of 
great moment, tbe prevalence of pulmonary 
consumption among the women, owing to the 
heavy burdens they oarry on their backs. 

Pall Mall Gasette. 

Seldom has a simple story been told in more 
touching language than the account given by 
the Toronto Globe of a lamentable accident 
which latelv befel a flock of sheep when passing 
over a bridge in Upper Canada. " There is," 
sAys the Globe, " a covered bridge at Peoria 
five hundred feet above high-water mark. A. 
drover recently attempted to drive a thousand 
sheep across it When about naif way over,, the 
bell-wether noticed an open window, and neoog- 
nising his destiny, made a strike for glory.- and 
the grave. When he reached the sunlight he at 
once appreciated hiscritioal situation, and. with 
a leg stretched towards each cardinal point of 
the compass, he uttered a plaintive * Ma-a!:'and 
descended to his fate. Tbe next sheep and the 
next followed, imitating the gesture and the re- 
mark of the leader. For hours it rained sheep. 
The ere while placid stream was incarnadine with 
the life-blood of moribund mutton, and not un- 
til the brief tail of the last sheep, as it disap- 
peared through the window, waved adieu. to the. 
wicked world, did this movement cease." 







Kagebein reads more of his poems. — What the Con- 
rector said to them. — What the RathskeUermeia- 
ter Kunst thought of concerts, and why he would 

£ve double rent. — How Doctor Hempel sane the 
Inen -weaver, Kagebein composed, and the Con- 
rector was provoked. — How Zephire's health 
1 came to be spilled on the Hofrath Altmann's vest. 
— Hofraih t holier makes a speech which is very 
reasonable, buteuds in a quarrel — Kunst breaks 
the pipes with a 6 tick, the Conreotor goes off in 
auger, and attempts to play the Linen-weaver on 
his violin, in the middle of the Holy Night, but 
does not succeed, as he is sent to bed. 

As the Herr Conrector passed the house 
of Buttermann the shopkeeper, near the 
market-place, he looked up at the Becond 
story, and said to himself: 

u I wonder if the Princess Chriatel will 
come back here in the summer? Hm, hml 
Perhaps she will want to take my Cicero 
de Officiis again. What a remarkable wo- 
man she is, goes about in her own rooms 
in leather breeches and a hussar's jacket, 
smokes a short pipe, and drinks port wine, 
reads Cicero, and, what is more, under- 
stands what she reads, for she is no fool." 

Uttering these words half-aloud, he came 
to the wine cellar kept by his brother-in- 
law, Kunst ; but almost recoiled from the 
threshold, for. there sat Kagebein in the 
room, in all his glory, with his manuscript 
in his hand, reading a poem. 

" Onoe a hen* with motherly anxiety, 

Digging worms behind the garden wall 
For herself, and for her children small, 
Bweet example of maternal piety! — " 

But he stopped abruptly, as he saw the 
Conrector, and although he looked a little 
flushed and embarrassed, he said, with con- 
siderable dignity, he would read the rest at 
another time. 

" God bless you for your Christian con- 
sideration/' said the Conrector, now com- 
ing fully into the room. " Digging worms 
for her chickens, (Kuchen) was she ? " 

44 What better could they ask ? " said 
Hofrath Altmann, who sat behind the table, 
dressed in his fine clothes, trimmed with 
gold lace, and his hair as nicely arranged 
as the Conrector's himself. " Has not our 
future Court Poet — for he will be so yet, 
I heard a little bird saying so, in Strelitz, — 
done his very best, and brought the Platt- 
deutsch and the High German languages 
into concert, so to speak, with that word 

• " Kuchen," adopted by Kagebein as a rhyme to 
*'8nchpn," is neither one thins; nor the other, 
" Kuchlein " being High German, and " Knken " 

11 Do me the favor," oried Kunst, the 
host, — a little red-faced man, who had to 
look up to every body, and with his thumb 
in one of his vest button-holes, ran up and 
down the room like the pendulum of a 
clock, — " do me the favor to say nothing 
about concerts. These new-fashioned 
concerts, where instead of quietly en- 
joying a glass of wine, one must sit down 
with the ladies in a hall, turn his eyes in- 
side out, wag his head this way and that, 
keep time with his foot to the music, and 
run about the streets next day* like a hand- 
organ, humming all sorts of French airs 1 " 

" You are right, there, Kunst," said the 
Conrector ; " we have so many sweet Ger- 
man airs, that we have no need of these) 
French concerts." 

" I don't agree with you," said the Herr 
Rath Fischer. " Herr Rathskeller-meister, 
why should you complain of the concerts ? 
Here, bring me a fresh glass before the 
punch comes in, and do make the room a 
tittle warmer ; it is confoundedly cold here." 

" That is your business, Herr Rath. Do 
you think I can warm such a great barn of 
a place as this ? I have often suggested to 
the magistrates, that they should let me 
have a wall built across, and make the 
room into two ; but it is not so easy to get 
it done. I have even offered to pay double 
rent, if they will do it." 

" That is honorable," said the Herr Rath, 
" and I will bring up the matter at the very 
next session." 

44 Take care to do it when the Treasurer 
isn't there, then; for be is particularly 
opposed to me." 

44 Herr Hofrath," said Kagebein, " a word 
with you," and he took the Hofrath into a 
corner. 44 So you really think I cannot fail 
to get the title of Court Poet? " 

44 1 certainly believe you will get it, and 
if I can do anything — you know I am on 
friendly terms with Serene Highness — " 

44 Oh, you can do everything." 

44 But Rand has influence, too." 

" A word with you, brother-in-law," said 
the Conrector to Kunst, and led him to 
another corner. " You say you would pay 
double rent, — why you pay no rent at all." 

44 Hold your tongue 1 I know that, but the 
treasurer is the only one, besides us two, 
who knows it; the others don't trouble 
themselves about the matter ; and if I can 
get them to grant my petition, everything 
will go on as it has done." 

44 Look here, Kagebein," said the Hot 
rath, rubbing his head, "doubled is strong 

means cake. 

for chicken. "Kuchen" in H. Q 

[Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1872, by Llttell & Gay, in the Office of the Librariso 

of Congress at Washington.] 



er, and tripled is stronger yet If you have 
me and Rand on your side, and not the 
Princess Cbristei) there is still something 
wanting. In your place, I would dedicate 
a Tolame of Poems to her, also ; for al- 
thoogh His Highness doesn't think much 
of women generally, still he would consult 
his sister in such a matter." 

" I have a great epic poem," whispered 
K'agebein, ** entitled 'The Beauty of the 
Bakery, or the Leap through the Black- 
thorn I • " 

" That is fine ; dedicate that to her* and 
then there will be no difficulty about the 

"Gentlemen," cried Doctor Hempel, 
from the table, " the punch is here ; you 
ean discuss the rest of your secrets at 
another time." 

When they were sitting together again, 
Bofrath Altmann said : 

"Doctor, tell ns if it is true, that old 
shoemaker Grabow's second son hat gone 

" Yes, it is true ; a remarkable case." 

"Yes," said the Rath Fischer, "and he is 
so bad, that we sent old Bendschneider 
there yesterday, on the magistrates' ac- 
count, as a watcher. He has been so be- 
fore ; it seems to come upon him by fits." 

"What is the reason of it? 1 ' inquired 
the Conrector. 

"Eh, who knows?" said the doctor. 
"His old mother thinks he has fallen in 
lore with some distinguished lady." 

"Nobody would go crazy on that ac- 
count," said Kunst. 

"Yes," said the Hofrath, "you would 
sot, I dare say ; you can laugh, you have a 
pretty wife, and have no idea how misera- 
ble an old bachelor or widower must be. 
Isn't it so, Conrector ? " 

"Your misery has never lasted long," 
■aid the Conrector. " You have been mar- 
ried three times, and I wager a bowl of 
punch before a year is out you will have a 
fourth wife." 

"It may happen so, if it should be con- 
venient," said the Hofrath. 

"What would Serene Highness say to 
that?" asked the Rath Fischer. 

"Eh, whatl" said the Hofrath. "Let 
him say what he pleases ; I shall not trouble 
myself much about Serene Highness in an 
•flair like that. Serene Highness needs 
me more than I need him." 

"Yes," said the Conrector, "you mean 
on account of the groschens. But after you 
were married the last time, it was a good 
while before you had insinuated yourself 
into his good graces again." 

"Well, Conrector, it is much the same 

with both of us. His Highness needs me 
on account of the groschens, and you be- 
cause he is so much. afraid of a thunder 
storm. He cannot spare either of us, and 
so you can get married whenever you 
please. You will wager a bowl of punch, 
that I shall have my fourth wife within a 
year; I will wager a bowl that you will 
have your second." 

"That is right," saidKunst; "children 
take something 1 Remember the host. This 
that stand* on the table, I shall set down 
to the Hofrath 's account, and the second to 
my. brother-in-law's." 

" Hold 1 " cried the Conrector. " Don't 
be too sure, and you will not be disap- 
pointed. Put it all down to the Hofrath's 
account, he must pay it yet." 

"Your word is a bridge upon which I 
am not obliged to walk," was the Hofrath's 

" Well, has the Conrector anybody in his 
eye, then ? " asked the Rath Fischer. 

" Yea indeed," laughed the Hofrath, 
" when he looks out of his window he can 
look into the window of his sweetheart." 

" Ha, ha 1 " laughed Kagebeiu, in whose 
head the punch was beginning to work al- 
ready, because he was a poet : 

" To Synoerene his spirit flies, 
To gase into her lovely eyns." 

" Kagebein 1 " cried the Conrector, stop- 
ping his ears, "let it go, we all know yon 
can do it. But," turning to the Hofrath, 
" you do not mean that I have an eye to 
that old, yellow French woman, who lives 
across the street from my house? " 

" Yellow French woman 1 " interrupted 
Doctor Hempel, "she is no more French 
than you or I. She is from Forstenbarg, 
her father was the old tax-gatherer Solt- 
mann, and as the only daughter by his sec- 
ond wife, she inherited a very nice little 
property. She was maid of honor to the 
Princess Christel, for many years, when 
she resided in Forstenbarg, and once went 
with her to Paris, where she picked up a 
little French." 

" And yellow ? " said the Hofrath ; " she 
is like a white dove only that she has a few 
freckles on her face, which are always a 
sign of a" good tint." (The Hofrath said 
teint, which is no more Platt-deutsch than 
it is English.) 

" Teint ? " repeated the Conrector, " that 
is one of your distinguished expressions for 
skin, I suppose ? You must have picked that 
up among his Highness's old foreign Court 
ladies ? " 

" Ho, ho ! '•' said Heir Fischer, " he is try- 
ing to escape, he wants to turn the conver- 



•at ion. Hpld 1 How is it about the yellow 
French neighbor V" 

u Brother-in-law, brother-in-law ! " cried 
Kunst, stopping bis pendulum motion for a 
moment, " what shall I think of you ? I 
shall have to take you in hand ! " 

Here Kagebein interrupted, looking 
steadfastly at the wall, as if the poetry were 
inscribed there : 

" His deeds malicious and unjust, 

Crafty his thoughts, and full of guile, 
His fame is vanity and dust, 
flfe merits no fair lady's smile." 

" Look here, Kagebein I " said the Con- 
rector, as he finished his glass, " I have 
been favored with quite enough of your 
poetry for to-day, and I have behaved as 
well as anybody could expect; but if you 
are going to make a personal matter of it, 
I will sue you for libel. Rath Fischer and 
Doctor Hempel are my witnesses that I 
have given you fair warning." 

But that was asking too much of a poet 
in full swing; Kagebein went on, undis- 
mayed : 

" No lady looks on thee with favor, 
Nor will, with all thy best endeavor, 
Yet better luck I wish to thee 
This evening, drinking punoh with thee." 

"That is right I" cried Hofrath Alt- 
mann, " we will drink punch, and the Court 
Poet Kagebein shall have the first toast ! " 

"Yes, Conrector," said Rath Fischer, 
" and you shall give it." 

"So I will," said the Herr Conrector, 
touching glasses with the poet. "May he 
live long and give up writing poetry ! " 

" Ha, ha ! " cried the Hofrath, " why he 
has but just begun ! Fay him in his own 
coin, Conrector I We Bramborgers must 
not allow ourselves to be outstripped by a 
Strelitzer, in the art of poetry." 

" You are a sly old instigator. Hofrath, 
and you have learned it at our Serene High- 
nesses' Court, for there " If he had 

gone on he would probably have been 
guilty of contempt of Majesty, but he was 
fortunately interrupted. During all this 
talk, Doctor Hempel had been gazing 
fixedly into his glass, and when he saw 
that it was full he had drunk it ; and when 
he saw that it was empty, he had filled it 
again, and so by degrees he had arrived at 
the physical condition where singing was 
necessary to his happiness ; he looked stiffly 
into his glass, emptied it with the greatest 
deliberation and solemnity, and broke out 
in a stentorian bass : 

«• Die Lineweber haben eine Saubers Zunft." 

"Have you got, so far as that, neigh- 
bor V " cried the Rath Fischer, w have you 
got to the Linen weaver ' ? " 

" Karl ! " cried Kunst to the boy, " bring 
in the other bowl, we have got to the 
Linen weavers!" and he waved Hofrath 
Altmann's cane over his head ; for be had 
the habit, in his pendulum progress, of tak- 
ing out one after another of bis guest's 
canes, for exercise. 

All this by-play had not interrupted 
Doctor Hempel in his song : 

" Die Lineweber haben eine Saubere Zunft, 
Harum, discharum — 
Mittfasten halten sie Zusammen-kunft, 
Harum, discharum — 
Aschegraue, Dunkelblaue, 
Mir ein Viertel, Dir ein Viertel, 
Fein oder grob, Geld giebts docb, 
Awhegraue, Dunkelblaue — " 

Here the whole company joined in, loud- 
ly ; stamping in chorus. 

" Karl 1 " cried Kunst to the boy, " run 
to my wife, and ask her to send us in some 
pepper-nuts and apples." 

44 Die Lineweber haben sieh ein Hans gebaut, 
Harum, discharum. 
Von buttermilk and sauerkraut, 
Harum, disoharum— - " 

began Doctor Hempel again. 

'• No, Doctor," interrupted Rath Fischer, 
"that is enough. If we were to sing 
through the whole of the Linen weavers, 
we should be sitting round the punch-bowl 
at sunrise to-morrow morning. Let us 
have a round song." 

" Karl," cried Kunst, " run into ray room 
and bring the great covered glass for the 
round song." 

Kagebein looked at the wall again, and 
seemed to be considerably agitated. 

" God bless us ! " cried the Conroctor to 
Doctor Hempel. " He is composing again.** 

"Die Lineweber schlaohten alle Jahr swei 

began Doctor Hempel. 

44 Hush 1 " cried Hofrath Altmann, here is 
Kunst's great goblet, now we will begin : •* 

"Rund, Rund, Rund-Gesang—" 

" Karl," cried Kunst again, " get my arm- 
chair for my brother-in-law, the Conrector ; 
he must be president ; and put a bit of tile 
under the short leg; — to keep it from wab- 
bling," he explained to his brother-in-law. 

" Come, now, begin 1 " cried Hofrath 
Altmann, and all joined in singing : 

44 Rund, Rund, Rund-Gesang und Rebensaft 
Lieben wir ja Alle; 



Dm* triolet mit Math and graft 

SohaQineode Pokale! 
Brudcr, done Schonste heisst? " 

All eyes were turned upon Kagebein, 
who rose with an involuntary jerk, and 
whose face beamed with poetic fire, senti- 
mental emotion, and chivalric ardor ; as if 
the son shone from one eye, the moon from j 
another, and superfluous pine torches were 
kindled upon the nose between them. He 
steadied himself by grasping the back of 
the Conrector's chair with one hand, while 
be gesticulated with the other : 

"Faneh and Bishop we most not forget, — 
Everything be done with etiquette, — 
To the health of all your fair ones drinking 
And with kindest wishes of them thinking, 
Hers I drink the health of my Zephire, 
And — and — and — " 

** And so do all the others here," said the 

"And to all fair ladies, everywhere," 
cried Kagebein, angrily, looking at the 
Conrector with indignation, as if the latter 
had attempted to pluck the finest laurel 
from bis wreath. 

" I shall not drink to Zephire and Ze- 
mirt," grumbled Doctor Hempel, in his 
deep bass, "they are dogs' names. My 
mother-in-law had one, that she called Ze- 
mire, snd my neighbor, Schultz the baker's 
wife, has one called Zephire. 

"Die Leuiewsber maehtsu eint sarts masik." 

Bat here he was interrupted. Kagebein 
bad removed his right hand from the Con- 
rector's chair, — his only security, — to 
take the goblet, and was lifting it to drink 
to bis Zephire, when the Doctor's con- 
temptuous words fell upon his ear. It was 
as i£ when he was in the midst of a verse, 
s beggar had come to the door, or as if, 
when he and his Zephire were sitting in 
the moonshine, 6omeoody had poured a 
glass of cold water over their heads, or 
a if the arm which he had outstretched for 
knightly deeds had been suddenly arrested. 
When one's arm is thus suddenly arrested, 
and one is holding a full glass in one's hand, 
the cup naturally runs over, and so it did 
oo the present occasion. Zephire's health 
overflowed upon the Hofrath Altmaun's 
velvet vest. 

"P-rr-r-rl" puffed the Hofrath, whose 
iaee had also received a little kiss from Ze- 
phire, ** the devil take such awkwardness ! " 

"Karl, bring a towel/' cried Kuust, 
* and clean np the Herr Hofrath." 

Kagebein stood for a moment quite as- 
tonished and confounded, then the fright 

broqght him partially to his senses, and he 
said, quite reasonably : " Herr Hofrath, 
Herr Hofrath, I could not help it. It made 
my hand tremble to hear Doctor Hempel 
call Zephire a dog's name." 

But when he saw Karl wiping up the 
punch, the poetic fire broke out anew : 

" This is a sad affair to day, 
But see, the servant comes in haste, 
And, koeeling, gently wipes away 
The panch from the Herr Hofrath's 

And then he turned to Doctor Hempel, who 
had risen and was standing by the window 
in the corner, and cried in a loud voice, 
while he pointed to Karl: 

" I was unfortunate, but thou 
The cause of all the trouble art, 
Thy scornful words of my Zephire 
80 deeply grieved my tender heart" 

Fortunately Doctor Hempel did not 
notice the poet's observations ; he had been 
checked in his favorite song, and the 
Linen-weavers were still imprisoned in his 
tnroat; he improved the opportunity to 
let them out, and was singing his song to 
himself in the corner. 

" Ad locos 1 " cried Kunst, " sub proeclu- 
sione, — that is to say, whoever does not 
sit down, must give a bowl of punch." 

" Down with you ! " said the Conrector, 
pulling the poet down into his chair by 
the skirts of his coat. " You will be spill- 
in or over me, next." 

But this Babylonish confusion of tongues 
did not continue long; for though punch 
has the failing of making sensible people 
a little light-headed, it has also the good 
property of rendering some people, not 
over-gifted with intelligence, uncommonly 
sensible. It had this effect upon Rath 
Fischer. He got up and made a speech ; 
as the Conrector observed afterwards, the 
most sensible he ever heard from him. He 
began by assuring the company that he, 
for his part, was quite sober ; — a state- 
ment which nobody contradicted, though 
the Conrector muttered to himself, " He 
always is," — then he looked at Kagebein, 
and added : " One of the company, how- 
ever, was very drunk ; but it was a bene- 
fit to the others, else they might not have 

been favoured with his fine thoughts, " 

Here Kagebein was going to protest and 
defend himself; but the Conrector so far 
restrained him that he produced only one 
short verse : — 

" Thanks for your kind remarks, my friend; 
Eat and drink with a joyous heart ! 
Live in pleasure without end ! 
Bid all anxious cares depart ! " 



" Very good I " said the Conrector, and 
turned to Rath Fischer: 

" So, now go on I " 

Rath Fischer blew his none to give him- 
self time for reflection, and said : " Iiof- 
rath Altmann might make himself quite 
easy, for, so far as he .knew, punch left no 
traces." — " Cannot you see it yourself? " 
asked the Hofrath.— " Well, and if it did 
leave traces," continued the orator, M there 
was no great harm done, for the Hofrath 
had received this vest as a present from 
his Serene Highuess, and his Serene High- 
ness had more left than he knew what to 
do with. For the rest, they had come here 
to enjoy themselves in peace and quiet, and 
if Doctor Hempel had rather overdone the 
Linenweavers, he had his reasons for it; he 
had heard that Doctor Hera pel's grand- 
father had been a linen weaver, and he 
thought well of the doctor for wishing to 
honour the old gentleman." 

44 That was a stupid joke I " cried the 
doctor; "his grandfather was no linen- 
weaver ; he had held an office under Gov- 
ernment ; he had been a gate-keeper about 
the time that Rath Fischer's grandfather 
bad been a policeman." 

"My grandfather "began Hofrath 

Altmann, — "was a letter-carrier for the 
Post," cried Kunst ; " Karl I No, that will 
do ! I don't want you, — only wanted to 
see if you were at your post." 

"My grandfather, " began Kage- 

bein, — "was a blockhead-maker," mut- 
tered the Conrector. "Fie I for shame I 
Trying to make out your grandfathers 
more distinguished than other people's I 
We should all be thankful that our ances- 
tors were good, honest people, who did 
their best for us, so that we have become 
what we are." 

"You are right, brother-in-law," said 
Kunst, •« for my grandfather " 

" We have had enough of that! Come : 


Rund, Rund, Rund-Gelong 
Und Rebensaft— 

" Karl I fill the glasses ! " cried Kunst, 
and, going to the corner, he selected a new 
stick and waved it over the heads of the 
company to beat the time for the song. 

44 Bruder, deine Sohune heist?" 

sang Khgebein, turning to the Conrector. 

" I have none," was the curt reply. 

"Out with it! out with it! He must 
have one ! " cried his comrades ; but Kage- 
bein knew what to do ; he sung lustily : 

44 Nihilia, die sail leben! Nihilia, diesall leben! " 

Kunst had always been accustomed to a 

stick with a crook ; at this moment he held 
in his hand a stick with a head, and as he 
was beating the time with great energy, it 
flew out of his hand, broke Hofrath Alt- 
mann and Doctor Hem pel's earthen pipes, 
and struck the Conrector. 

" Karl 1 " cried Kunst, " fresh pipes for 
the two gentlemen ! " 

"Brother-in-law," said the Conrector, 
" how could you throw about my cane in 
that fashion ! The gold head might be in- 

" That is your cane, is it ? " said Kunst, 
snatching it out of his hand. " That is my 
father-in-law's cane." 

" Yes, and my father-in-law's, too." 

" My father-in-law gave me that cane on 
his death-bed." 

" He gave it to me ! " cried the Conrec- 
tor, and he snatched it from Kunst again ; 
" and, brother-in-law, mark this : beatus 

" Beati possidentis " said Rath Fischer to 

"And this cane " cried Kunst. 

" And this cane," cried the Conrector, " my 
father-in-law gave me on his death-bed; 
he said a man in my position ought to carry 
a gold-headed cane." 

"Karl," cried KunBt, "take the stick 
away from him! But he # must pay first. 
Nobody need come here who will not 
pay ! " 

" I have paid," cried the Conrector, and 
he buttoned up his pockets, threw his 
cloak over his shoulder*, and marched off 
with the greatest dignity. 

" You are right 1 " cried Rath Fischer, 
and followed him. 

" Bravo 1 " cried Hofrath Altmann, also 
following. " If Kunst were to go about 
with a gold-headed cane, he would look 
like a pig's head brought to the table with 
a lemon in the mouth." 

As the Conrector passed under the arched 
gateway of the Rathhaus, where Kunst had 
hung a lantern for this special occasion, a 
gust of wind struck him ; he did not heed 
it, but, holding fast with one hand the old 
cloak, which was not buttoned, and 
streamed out behind him like a torn sail, 
he held up his cane before him with the 
other, and cried, " My cane /" 

" You look like the flying Mercury, on 
the Dutch tobacco-packages," said the 

"With a caducous," laughed Rath 

" My cane I " cried the" Conrector, pay- 
ing no attention to their jokes, turned into 
his street, entered his house, and, in the 
hall, cried once more : u My cane 1 " 



"Good heavens ! n exclaimed, Diirten, 
earning to meet him, " what is the matter ? 
What do yon want ? Come into the room." 

"Knnst will take my cane from me I" 

» What 1 Kunst will take your cane ? " 

u Kunst will take my cane I " 

u Why, Kunst mutt be out of bis beadl 
Come, Heir Conrector, you have got ex- 
cited ; drink a glass of water, and go to 
bed. You will feel better in the morning." 

u Knnst Hold i Anna Maria Doro- 
thea Holzen, eldest daughter of Holzen the 
master-cooper, 1 believe you are a thor- 
oughly houest girl. I will deliver my cane 
into your charge. You shall be responsi- 
ble for it ! " 

M Give it here, Herr Conrector ; I will 
lock it up in my chest, and anybody that 
tries " 

" Kunst might invade the premises when 
I am in school." 

u Eb ! Ill invade him, if ho should ! " 
cried Diirten, flourishing the stick in the 
air. M But now go to bed." 

" And Rath Fischer, too, he said : ' Beati 
possidentis" said he. 

"I don't understand," said Diirten, " but 
it must be something very foolish if Rath 
Fischer said it, for since the time when be 
sold ray old father's garden " 

" Rath Fiscbf r ? Doctor Herapel ? Doc- 
tor Hempel is a linen-weaver, — 

" Die Leineweber haben eine Saubere Zunft," 

sang the Conrector, and took down his 
violin, and was going to play the Linen- 
weavers on this Holy Night between the 
24th and 25th of December; but Diirten 
Holzen was too quick for him. She 
snatched the fiddle bow from his hand. 
"Come, this is pretty business! I will 
smear your bow with tallow I How ? You 
must sing, as Cantor, in the church, to- 
morrow, and you want to play the Linen- 
weavers in the middle of the night ? What 
would people say V What would the neigh- 
bors say? What would the old yellow 
thing opposite say ? Come, do you go to 
bed, and I will put away the fiddle bow 
and the cane, and when you are in bed I 
will come and take away the oandle, so 
there will be no danger ; " and upon that 
she departed, and he went to bed. After 
a little while, when she heard him snoring 
unmistakably, she went in and brought out 
his candle, and said to herself: 

44 Things must have gone wrong this 
evening, for he is not generally so ; but he 
is not used to it, and cannot bear much ; 
and then he got vexed with Kunst. Well, 
that is no matter, that is good for him ; he 
learns to know the difference. To-morrow 

he will have the headache v and stay at 
home, and that is a good thing, too. 1 can 
go with Stining and Halsband on the ice, 
and look after them ; for such young peo- 
ple ought not to be left alone." 

In a little while all was dark in the Con- 
rector's house, but if one could have seen 
through the darkness, and have looked 
into Diirten Holzen's sleeping-room, be 
would have perceived her lying softly 
asleep, with her hands folded on her 
bosom. Only innocent child-hands, and 
houest, bard-working hands, that are pure 
from unjust gains and wicked deeds, carry 
the evening prayer on into quiet, blessed 


Diirten surreys and measures her Christmas pres- 
ent — The yellow woman brings a yellow cake. — 
Dur ten's pride in Kirschii Cornucopia and Ho- 
mer. — 1\ unst makes an invasion and conspires 
with the yellow woman. —The Herr Conrector 
finds a piece of white paper and has ths headache 
in consequence of yesterday evening. — Durten 
and Stining go on the ice with HaUband, who 
improves his privileges. — Knnst makes shameful 
attempts upon Durten's loyalty with a glass of 
punch.— Durten *it* in Judgment upon Stining, 
and Kunst congratulates his brother-in-law upon 
the yellow woman. 

The next morning, the Herr Conrector 
sat in his place as Cantor, at the church, 
and played the organ and sang with as 
much energy as the occasion called for and 
his headache would permit ; Diirten Holzen, 
meanwhile, stood in the hall, and had hung 
her Christmas present on a nail, that it 
might appear to the best advantage. The 
sun shone brightly through the hall- win- 
dow, for it was a beautiful white Christmas 
and winter day. The storm of yesterday 
evening was over, and the young people in 
the city were getting out their skates and 
sleds, and saying : " It would be fine on 
the ice to-day, for the wind has blown off 
the snow from the track.'* 

Diirten Holzen held a hazel stick and a 
brush in her hand, but she did not proceed 
to her work; she turned her future prop- 
erty to the right and to the left, and up 
and down, and held it in the sunlight. 

"It would do now," she said, thought- 
fully, " but at Whitsuntide 1 How he will 
rub it, before that time, on those old rough 
benches 1 If he would only sit quietly, and 
have a cushion in his chair; but he never 
will. I might at least try the Experiment 
of a cushion." 

She went into her room, and came back 
with a 6pencer pattern, and laid the back 
piece here and there on the breeches, but 
it would not fit anywhere. 

" Well," said she, " he may be able to tell 



bow * spencer is coming oat of it,—*/ 
cannot. Perhaps Stining can help me/' 

While she was engaged in these pro- 
found thoughts, the door opened. Diirten 
dropped her brush and earns near crying 
for help, for she felt as if a whole band 
of robbers had broken into the hall, and 
she were about to be gagged and bound ; 
— the neighbour from across the street 
stood there, in her yellow pelisse, and held 
in her hand a plate containing a cake as 
yellow as saffron. 

Diirten was greatly terrified ; but, being 
so decided a character, she quickly regained 
her self-possession, and then became 
ashamed and vexed at her own foolish- 
ness, and angry with its cause. 

"Bon jour, Mademoiselle," said the 
neighbour, making a very graceful bow. 

Diirten Holzen slightly inflated her nos- 
trils, threw back her head, and thrust her 
hands under her apron, in a very resolute 
manner, bo that the hazel stick, which she 
still held, hung down at her side like a 
sword. " If you mean me, with your Mam- 
sell," said she, very coldly, and yet with 
great excitement, " I can only say that I 
make no pretensions to such a rank and 
title; I am only the Herr Conrector's 

" Pardon, ma chere, I am far from wish- 
ing tor disturb the peace of this amiable 
household, which has been established un- 
der the wings of modest intellect. I come 
en qualite* of a friendly neighbour, to lay 
at your feet and the Conrector's a modest 
offering for the joyful occasion of this fes- 
tal* day. Chose la is from the boulangere, 
Madam Schultz, who has just betrayed to 
me that you did not bake for the festival." 

So, Diirten Holzen, what now? You 
may still be angry, if you please, but you 
cannot afford to be rude ; when a person 
comes to you with such fine language, and 
a saffron-coloured cake, you must at least 
show that you have manners. But you 
can still be angry, Diirten t And so she 

" What ! " she cried, « 8chultz, — Baker 
Schultz ! Does she bring us into the mouth 
of strange people, because we have not 
baked ? We might have baked, as well as 
other people, but we di d not choose to bake ; 
and Schultz makes sport of us on that ac- 

Not at all, — she had not spoken of it in 
that way, said Mamsell Soltmann, and be- 
gan her fine speeches anew, holding out 
the plate to Diirten, so that Diirten was 
compelled to be civil in return, even if the 
Mamsell had worn ten yellow pelisses, one 
above the other. She could not receive 

her guest in the hall, her own room was 
not yet ready for company, for she wast 
very sparing of wood ; so she dropped her 
stick, took out her hands from under her 
apron, and taking the plate in one band, 
she opened the door of the Herr Conrec- 
tor's room with the other, and motioned 
the French woman to enter. Although 
she was still angry, a thrill of pride ran 
through her heart when she saw that the 
outlandish woman stepped over the thresh- 
old of the Conrector's study with fear and 
trembling. It was really so. The poor 
yellow woman thought nothing of bringing 
the Herr Conrector a little cake for Christ- 
mas ; but as she entered this sanctum- 
sanctorum, she felt like a young student 
when he enters for the first time, as a 
Freshman, the lecture room of some learned 
professor, where learning is, so to speak, 
dished out in bowls and administered in 
brimming ladles, and the very air of the 
room has a musty odor, from the quan- 
tity of wisdom it contains, and the length 
of time it has been the abode of learn- 

Diirten set down the plate on the table, 
pushed aside the Herr Conrector's arm- 
chair, and, placing another for the visitor, 

" Sit down. He is not at home, he is at 

But the guest stood, quite confound- 
ed, before the Herr Courector's book- 
shelves, and contemplated, the backs of 
perhaps fifty old leather-covered volumes 
witli great veneration. 

" And has he read all those through V " 
cried the Mamsell. 

Auotber thrill of pride shot through Dux- 
ten's heart. The air was not musty to 
her, she was quite accustomed to it. 

14 Read them through I " said she, and 
laughed as if she were laughing at a child. 
•'Read them through 1 Studied them 
through, you should say ! See here," and 
she pulled out an old soldier, *• this is Kir* 
schii ; tbiB generally lies here ; we always 
use this when we give private instructions. 
These six go back and forth with him to 
school, he teaches ont of them there. Some 
get as far as these. I think they must be 
a sort of catechism, but some learn out of 
this," and she took down a well-worn speci- 
men of Homer. " This must be something 
like our Bible, for the Conrector reads in 
it every evening, sometimes softly, but of- 
ten aloud, and then it sounds as fine as 
when they are singing in church. Of 
course one cannot understand a word of 
it; it is just as if you were to go to the 
Jewish Synagogue. And just see how it 



looks inside 1 " nod she held up the Greek 
letters for the Mamsell'e observation. 

She was admiring them, when the door 
bell rang, and the Bath Kellermeister, 
Kmst came into the room : 

44 Good morning I — My brother-in-law 
the Conrector not yet home from church ? " 

"Not yet," replied Dtirten, her angry 
mood returning, upon the sight of Kunst, 
especially as she noticed him prying into 
all the corners, which could only be from 
his anxiety to discover the gold-headed 

"Ah, so 1 " said be, and coughed aiittle 
to clear his throat, made the Mamsell 
rather a cavalier bow, looked at her with 
some cariosity, and then said, laughing to 
himself aiittle: 

* So you are here too ? Wo 11, I con- 
gratulate you ! " 

"Pourquoi ? v asked she, turning red. 

"Why? Because ■ I should have 
laid, the compliments of the season 1 You 
ean reckon it against New- Year's, for I 
shall have so many people to congratulate 
then, that I may forget you/* and with 
last he stuck his thumbs in the armholes 
of his vest, and began to walk up and 
down the room. 

'Diirten, when will he come ? " 

• When church is out." 

*Hm ! Hm ! — Earl 1 Yes, so. I will 

make some other calls in the city; for I 
don't see his stick anywhere."- 

" If you want a stick, I can help you to 
one," said Dtirten, going out aa quickly as 
if she kept an assortment of. walking sticks 
on hand, and could equip all the idlers in 

** Here 1" said she, holding out to the 
Rath Kellermeister the kuotted hazel *tick 
with which she had been beating the velvet 

" Hm 1 Hm ! — She is making fun of 
me. — Very good, I will remember ; put it 
down to your account/' 

" I wish you a good morning/' said the 
neighbor, who had noticed that there was 
something in the air. " Adieu 1 " 

"Wait, wait!" said Kunst, "I have 
something to say to you, I will go with 
you. — You often visit my brother-in-law 
— well, no harm in it ! — Well, Diirten, I 
have nothing to look for here." 

44 1 thought so," said Diirten to herself, 
as the two went out together. " Truly I " 
she exclaimed, putting her hands on her 
sides, and watching them across the street, 
" he goes with her to her house. This is a 
regular conspiracy against the Herr Con- 
rector, I'll Wager my life 1 He wants the 
cane, and what she wants " The sen- 
tence was finished by a significant shud- 

Harper'* Weekly announces the death, at 
Beading, Pennsylvania, at the age of fifty-six, 
of Mr. William M. Baird, a gentleman who was 
much interested in natural history, and espe- 
cbilj in ornithology. Mr. Baird, while resid- 
ing st Carlisle, Pennsylvania, commenced iu 
1838 a collection of the birds of the county, in 
which he was assisted by his younger brother, 
Prof 8. F. Baird, of the Smithsonian Institution ; 
lad the two carried on their labours in common 
for many years, daring which time they published 
coBJobtly descriptions of two new species of small 
ij-ettebers discovered by them in the vicinity 
of Carlisle, as also a list of the birds of Cum- 
berland County. Having adopted the profession 
of the law, Mr. William Baird was obliged to 
give op his active labours in ornithology, and 
the work was continued by his brother, who, on 
reeming an appointment in conneuiiou withtbe 
Smithsonian Institution at Washington, carried 
to it the conjoint collection, whioh formed, in a 
measure, the basis of the magnificent series of 
North American birds in the institution, and 
vhich has served as the material for so much 
RBESfch on the pari of naturalists in America 
■ad ether countries. 

We hear from Ceylon that there has been a ■ 
deluge, which has done considerable damage; 
but the coffee districts are believed not to hive 
Buffered much. At Colombo a bank near the 
Pettah, or native suburb, had to be cut through 
in order to allow the water accumulated in the 
lake and its neighborhood to escape into the sea. 
Mr. S. Green, of Colombo (a gentleman who 
takes great interest in scienoe, and has sent 
home to England a great number of very inter- 
esting minute insects new to science, and who 
has a splendid telescope by Cooke, the best in 
Ceylon), says in a private letter : — •• We have 
had heavy rains here, whioh have inundated a 
great portion of the Western Province. A great 
many native houses have been destroyed, and 
one or two lives lost. Many natives took refuge 
in the coooa-nut trees around their dwellings; 
but some were found already occupied by snakes 
that had climbed the trees to esoape the flood. 
Tbey were very fierce, and maintained their 
position. ' A friend of mine going over the 
paddy-fields in a boat, saw several dead snakes 
floating on the water, and others swimming 
about/' Nature. 




From Ttao Cornhlll Magazine. 

Every one is familiar with the occasion- 
al occurrence of coincidences, no strange 
— considered abstractly — that it appears 
difficult to regard them as due to mere 
casualty. The mind is dwelling on some 
person or event, and suddenly a circum- 
stance happens which is associated in some 
altogether unexpected, and as it were im- 
probable manner with that person or event. 
A scheme has been devised which ctn only 
fail if some utterly unlikely series of events 
should occur, and precisely those events 
take place. Sometimes a coincidence is 
utterly trivial, yet attracts attention by 
the singular improbability of the observed 
events. We are thinking of some circum- 
stance, let U3 say, in which two or three 
persons are concerned, and the first book 
or paper we turn to, shows, in the very 
first line we look at, the names of those 
very persons, though really relating to 
others in no way connected with them ; 
and so on, with many other kinds of coin- 
cidence, equally trivial and equally singular. 
Yet again, there are other coincidences 
which are rendered striking by their fre- 
quent recurrence. It is to sucn recurring 
coincidences that common superstitions 
owe their origin, while the special super- 
stitions thus arising (that is, superstitions 
entertained by individuals) are innumera- 
ble. It is lucky to do this, unlucky to do 
that, say those who believe in common 
superstitions; and they can always cite 
many coincidences in favour of their opin- 
ion. But it is amazing how common are 
the private superstitions entertained by 
many who smile at the superstitions of the 
ignorant. We must suppose that all such 
superstitions have been based upon ob- 
served coincidences. Again, there are 
tricks or habits which have obviously had 
their origin in private superstitions. Dr. 
Johnxon may not have believed that some 
misfortune would happen to him if he 
failed to place his hand on every post 
which he passed along a certain route ; he 
would certainly not have maintained such 
an opinion publicly : yet, in the first in- 
stance, that habit of his must have had its 
origin in some observed coincidences ; and 
when once a habit of the sort is associated 
with the idea of good luck, even the strong- 
est minds have been found unready to 
shake off the superstition. 

It is to be noticed, indeed, that many 
who reject the idea that the ordinary super- 
stitions have any real significance, are 
nevertheless unwilling to run directly coun- 
ter to them. Thus, a man shall be alto- 

gether sceptical as to the evil effects which 
follow, according to a common supersti- 
tion, from passing under a ladder; he may 
be perfectly satisfied that the proper rea- 
son for not passing under a ladder is the 
possibility of its falling, or of something 
falling from it : yet he will not pass under 
a ladder, even though it is well secured, 
and obviously carries nothing which can 
fall upon him. So with the old supersti- 
tions, that a broken mirror brings seven 
years of sorrow, which, according to some, 
dates from the time when a mirror was 
so costly as to represent seven years' say- 
ings; there are those who despise the 
superstition who would yet be uu willing 
to tempt fate (as they put it) by wilfully 
breaking even the most worthless old look- 
ing-glass. Astory is not unfrequently 
quoted in defence of such caution. Every 
one knows that sailors consider it unlucky 
for a ship to sail on a Friday. A person, 
anxious to destroy this superstition, had a 
ship's keel laid on a Friday, the ship 
launched on a Friday, her masts taken in 
from the sheer-hulk on a Friday, the cargo 
shipped on a Friday ; he found (heavens 
knows how, but so the story runV) a Cap- 
tain Friday to command her ; and lastly, 
she Bailed on a Friday. But the supersti- 
tion was not destroyed, for the ship never 
returned to port, nor was the mauner of 
her destruction known. Other instances 
of the kind might be cited. Thus a feeling 
is entertained by many persons not other- 
wise superstitious, that bad luck will follow 
any wilful attempt to run counter to a 

it is somewhat singular that attempts 
to correct even the more degrading forms 
of superstition have often been as unsuc- 
cessful as those attempts which may per- 
haps not unfairly be called tempting fate. 
Let us be understood. To refer to the ex- 
ample already given, it is a manifest ab- 
surdity to suppose that the sailing of a 
ship on a Friday is unfortunate ; and it 
would be a piece of egregious folly to con- 
sider such a superstition when one has oc- 
casion to take a journey. But the oase is 
different when anyone undertakes to prove 
that the superstition is an absurdity ; sim- 
ply because he must assume in the first in- 
stance that "he will succeed, a result which 
cannot be certain, and such confidence, 
apart from all question of superstition, is 
a mistake. In fact, a person so acting errs 
in the very same way as those whom he 
wished to correct ; they refrain from a cer- 
tain act because of a blind fear ot' bad luck, 
and he proceeds to the act with an equally 
blind belief in good luck. 



Bat one cannot recognize the saine ob- 
jection in the case of a person who tries 
to correct some superstition by actions 
not involving any tempting of fortune. 
Yet it has not unfrequently happened that 
such actions have resulted in confirming 
the superstition. The following instance 
may be cited. An old woman came to 
Flamsteed, the first Astronomer Royal, to 
ask him whereabouts a certain bundle of 
linen might be, which she had lost. Flam- 
steed determined to show the folly of that 
belief in astrology, which had led her to 
Greenwich Observatory (under some mis- 
apprehension as to the duties of an Astrono- 
mer Royal). He "drew a circle, put a 
square into it, and gravely pointed out a 
ditch, near her cottage, in which he said 
it would be found." lie then waited until 
the should come back disappointed, and in 
a fit frame of mind to receive the rebuke 
he intended for her ; but 44 she came back 
in great delight, with the bundle in her 
hand, found in the very place." 

In connection with this story, though 
bearing rather on over-hasty scientific 
theorizing than on ordinary superstitions, 
we quote the following story fron De Mor- 
gan's Budget of Paradoxes ; " The late 
Baron Zach received a letter from Pons, a 
successful finder of comets, complaining 
that for a certain period he had found no 
comets, though he had searched diligently. 
Zach, a man of much sly humour, told him 
that no spots had been seen on the sun 
for about the same time — which was true 
—and assured him that when the spots 
came back, the comets would come with 
them. Some time after he got a letter 
from Pons who informed him with great 
satisfaction that he was quite right ; that 
very large spots had appeared on the sun, 
and that he had found a comet shortly after. 
I have -the story in Zach's handwriting. 
It would mend the story exceedingly if 
some day a real relation should be estab- 
lished between comets and solar spot3. 
Of late years good reason has been shown 
for advancing a connection between these 
spots and the earth's magnetism. If the two 
things had been put to Zach he would 
probably have chosen the comets. Here 
is a him for a paradox : the solar spots are 
the dead comets, which have parted with 
their light and heat to feed the sun, as was 
once suggested. I should not wonder if I 
were too late, and the thing had been act- 
ually maintained." Da Morgan was not 
far wrong. Something very like his para- 
dox was advocated, before the Royal As- 
tronomical Society, by Commander Ashe, 
of Canada, earlier we believe than the date 

of De Morgan's remarks. The present 
writer happens to have striking evidence 
in favour of De Morgan's opinion about 
the view which Zach would probably have 
formed of the theory which connects sun- 
spots and the earth's magnetism. When 
the theory was as yet quite new, it was 
referred to by the present writer in a com- 
pany of Cambridge men, snostly high 
mathematicians, and it was received at 
first as an excellent joke, and welcomed 
with laughter. It need hardly be said, 
however, that when the ntaure of the evi- 
dence was stated, the matter assumed 
another aspect. Yet, in passing, it may 
be mentioned that there are those who 
maintain that after all this theory is untrue, 
the evidence on which it rests being due 
only to certain strange coincidences. 

In many instances, indeed, considerable 
care is required to determine whether real 
association or mere casual coincidence is 
in question. It is surprising how, in some 
cases, an association can be traced between 
events seemingly in no way connected. 
One is reminded of certain cases of deriv- 
ation. Ninety-nine persons out of a hun- 
dred, for instance, would laugh at the no- 
tion that the words " hand " and " prize " 
are connected ; yet the connection is seen 
clearly enough when " prize " i3 traced 
back to " prehendo," with fie root " hend " 
obviously related to " hand," u hound," and 
so on. Equally absurd at a first view is 
the old joke that the Goodwiu Sands were 
due to the building of a certain church; 
yet if moneys which had been devoted to 
the annual removal of the gathering sand 
were employed to defray the co3t of the 
church, mischief, afterwards irreparable, 
might very well have been occasioned. 
Even the explanation of certain mischances 
as due to the circumstance that *' there was 
no weathercock at Kiloe," rany admit of a 
not quite unreasonable interpretation. 
We leave this as an exercise for the inge- 
nious reader. 

But when we have undoubted cases of 
coincidence, without the possibility of any 
real association (setting the supernatural 
aside), we have a problem of some interest 
to deal with. To explain them as due to 
some special miraculous intervention may 
be satisfactory to many mind3, in certain 
cases ; but, in others, it is impossible to 
conceive that the matter ha3 searasd wor- 
thy of a miracle. Even viewing the ques- 
tion in its bearing on religious ideas, there 
are cases where it seems far more mis- 
chievous (as bringing ridicule ou the very 
conception of the miraculous) to believe 
in supernatural intervencion, than to reject 



each an explanation on the score of ante- 
cedent improbability. Horace's rule, " Nee 
deus Intersil nisi dignus vindice nodus" re- 
mains sound when we write " Deus " for 
" deus." 

Now there have been cases so remarka- 
ble, yet so obviously unworthy of super- 
natural intervention, that we are perplexed 
to find any Reasonable explanation of the 
matter. The following, adduced by De 
Morgan, will, we have no doubt, recall cor- 
responding cases in the experience of read- 
ers of these lines : — " In the summer of 
1835," he says, " I made myself first ac- 
quainted with the tales of Nathaniel Haw- 
thorne, and the first I read was about the 
siege of Boston in the War of Independ- 
ence. I could not make it out: everybody 
seemed to have got into somebody else's 
place. I was beginning the second tale, 
when a parcel arrived : it was a lot of old 
pamphlets and other rubbish, a* he called 
it, sent by a friend who had lately sold his 
books, had not thought it worth while to 
send these things for sale, but thought I 
might like to look at them, and possibly 
keep some. The first thing I looked at 
was a sheet, which, being opened, displayed 
4 A plan of Boston and its environs, shew- 
ing the true situation of his Majesty's ar- 
my, and also that of the rebels, drawn by 
an engineer, at Boston, October, 1775.' 
Such detailed plans of current sieges being 
then uncommon, it is explained that ' The 
principal Dart of this plan was surveyed 
by Richard Williams, Lieutenant at Bos- 
ton ; and sent over by the son of a noble- 
man to his lather in town, by whose per- 
mission it was published*' I immediately 
saw that my confusion arose from my sup- 
posing that the king's troops were besieg- 
ing the rebels, when it was just the other 
way " (a mistake, by the way, which does 
not suggest that the narrative was partic- 
ularly lucid). 

Another iustance cited by De Morgan is 
vet more remarkable, though it is not near- 
ly so strange as a circumstance which we 
shall relate afterwards : — "In August, 
1831," he sayi, " M. Senarmont, of the 
French Institute, wrote to me to the effect 
that Fresnel had sent to Englaud in, or 
shortly after, 1321, a paper for translation 
and insertion in the European Review, 
which shortly after expired. The question 
was what had become of the paper. I ex- 
amined the Review at the Museum, found 
no trace of the paper, and wrote back to 
that effect, at the Museum, adding that ev- 
erything now depended on ascertaining the 
name of the editor, and tracing his papers : 
of this I thought there was no chance. I 

posted the letter on my way home, at * 
post office in the Hatnpstead Road, at the 
junction with Edward Street, on the op- 
posite side of which is a bookstall. Loung- 
ing for a moment over the exposed books, 
sicut meus est mos % I saw, within a few min- 
utes of the posting of the letter, a little 
catchpenny book of anecdotes of Macau- 
lay, which I bought, and ran over for a 
minute. My eye was soon caught by this 
sentence : * One of the youn* fellows im- 
mediately wrote to the Editor (Mr. 
Walker) of the European Review. 9 I thus 
got the clue by which I ascertained that 
there was no chance of recovering Fres- 
nel's papers. Of the mention of current 
Reviews not one in a thousand names the 
editor." It will be noticed that there was 
a double coincidence in this case. It was 
sufficiently remarkable that the first men- 
tion of a review, after the difficulty had 
been recognized, should relate to the 
European, and give the name of the editor ; 
but it was even more remarkable that the 
ooourrence should be timed so strangely 
as was actually the case. 

But the circumstance we are now to 
relate, seems to us to surpass in strange- 
ness all the coincidences we have ever 
heard of. It relates to a matter of con- 
siderable interest apart from the coinci- 

When Dr. Thomas Young was endeavour* 
ing to interpret the inscription of the fa- 
mous Rosetta Stone, Mr. Grey (afterwards 
Sir George Francis Grey) was led on his 
return from Egypt to place in Yonng's 
hands some of the most valuable fruits of 
his researches among the relics of Egyp- 
tian art, iucluding several fine specimens ' 
of writing on papyrus, which he had par- 
chased from an Arab at Thebes, in 1820. 
Before these had reached Young, a man 
named Casati had arrived in Paris, bring- 
ing with him from Egypt a parcel of Egyp- 
tian manuscripts, among which Champol- 
lion observed one which bore in its pre- 
amble some resemblance to the text of 
the Rosetta Stone. This discovery at- 
tracted much attention; and Dr. Young 
having procured a copy of the papyrus, 
attempted to decipher and translate it. 
He had made some progress with the 
work when Mr. Grey gave him the new 
papyri. " These," says Dr. Young, " con- 
tained several fine specimens of writing 
and drawing on papyrus; they were 
chiefly in hieroglyphics and of a mytho- 
logical nature ; but two which he had be- 
fore described to me, as particularly deserv- 
ing attention, and which were brought, 
through his judicious precautions, in ex- 



eellent preservation, both contained some 
Greek characters, written apparently in 
a pretty legible hand. That which was 
most intelligible had appeared at first 
sight to contain Rome words relating to 
the service of the Christian church." Pass- 
ing thence to speak of Casati's papyrus, 
Dr. Yonng remarks that it was the first 
in which any intelligible ' characters of the 
enchorial form had been discovered among 
the many manuscripts and inscriptions 
which had been examined, and it "fur- 
nished M. Champollion with a name which 
materially advanced the steps leading him 
to his very important extension of the 
hieroglyph ical alphabet. He had men- 
tioned to me in conversation the names of 
ApolIoniu3, Antiochus, and Antigonus, as 
occurring among the witnesses; and I 
easily recognized the groups which he had 
deciphered ; although, instead of Antiochus, 
I read Antimachns ; and I did not recol- 
lect at the time that he had omitted the 
M. w 

Now comes the strange part of the 

'•In the evening of the day that Mr. 
Grey had brought me his manuscripts," 
proceeds Dr. Young (whose English, by 
the way, is in places slightly questionable), 
* I proceeded impatiently to examine that 
which was in Greek only; and I could 
scarcely believe that I was awake and in 
my sober senses, when I observed among 
the names of the witnesses Antimachns An- 
tigeni* (sic) ; and a few lines further back, 
Portis Apollonii; although the last word 
could not have been very easily deciphered, 
without the assistance of the conjecture, 
which immediately occurred to me, that 
this mannscript might perhaps be a trans- 
lation of the enchorial manuscript of Ca- 
sstL I found that its beginning was, " A 
copy of an Egyptian writing ; " and I pro- 
ceeded to ascertain that there were the 
same nnraber of names intervening be- 
tween the Greek and the Egyptian signa- 
tures that I had identified, and that the 
same number followed the last of them. 
The whole number of witnesses was six- 
teen in each I could not therefore 

but conclude," proceeds Dr. Young, after 
dwelling on other points equally demon- 
strative of the identity of the Greek and 
enchorial inscriptions, " that a most extra- 
ordinary chance had brought into my 
possession a document which was not very 
likely, in the first place, ever to have ex- 
isted, still less to have been preserved un- 
injured, for my information, through a 
period of near two thousand years ; but 
that this very extraordinary translation 

should have been brought safely to Eu- 
rope, to England, and to me, at the very 
moment when it was most of all desirable 
to me to possess it, as the illustration of 
an original which I was then studying, 
but without any other reasonable hope 
of comprehending it; this combination 
would, in other times, have been con* 
sidered as affording ample evidence of my 
having become an Egyptian sorcerer." 
The surprising effect of the coincidence is 
increased when the contents of this Ezpy- 
tian manuscript are described. " It relates 
to the sale, not of a house or a field, but 
of a portion of the collections and offerings 
made from time to time on account or for 
the benefit of a certain number .of mum- 
mies of persons described at length in very 
bad Greek, with their children and all 
their households." 

The history of astronomy has in quite 
recent times afforded a very remarkable 
instance of repeated coincidences. We 
refer to the researches by which the the- 
ory has been established that meteors ami 
comets are so far associated that meteor 
systems travel in the track of comet3. It 
will readily be seen from the following 
statements, all of which may be implicitly 
relied upon, that the demonstration of this 
theory must be regarded as. partly due to 
singular good fortune : — 

Ihere are two very remarkable meteor 
systems — the system which produces the 
November shooting-stars, or Leonides, and 
that which produces the August shooting- 
stars, or Perseides. It chanced that the 
year 1866 was the time when a great dis- 
play of November meteors was expected 
by astronomers. Hence, in the year3 18(55 
and 1866, considerable attention was di- 
rected to the whole subject of shooting- 
stars. Moreover, so many astronomers 
watched the display of 1886, that very 
exact information was for the first time 
obtained as to the apparent track of these 
meteors. It is necessary to mention that 
such information was essential to success 
in the main inquiry. Now it had chanced 
that in 1862 a fine comet had been seen, 
whose path approached the earth's path 
very closely indeed. Thi3 led the Italian 
astronomer Schiaparelli to inquire whether 
there might not be some connection be- 
tween this comet and the August shoot- 
ing-stars, which cross the earth's path at 
the same place. He was able, by com- 
paring the path of the comet and the ap- 
parent paths of the meteors, to render 
this opinion highly probable. Then came 
inquiries into the real paths of the No- 
vember meteors, these inquiries being 



rendered just practicable by several coin- 
cidences, as — (1) the exact observations 
just mentioned ; (2) the existence of cer- 
tain old accounts of the meteor shower ; 

(3) the wonderful mastery obtained by 
Professor Adams over all problems of 
perturbatiou (for the whole question de- 
pended on the way in which the Novem- 
ber meteors had been perturbed) ; and 

(4) the existence of a half-forgotten trea- 
tise by Gauss, supplying formulae which 
reduced Adams' labour by one half. The 
path having been determined (by Adams 
alone, we take this opportunity of insist- 
ing)* the whole question rested on the 
recognition of a comet travelling in the 
same path. If such a comet were found, 
Schiaparelli's case was made out. If not, 
then, though the evidence might be con- 
vincing to mathematicians well grounded 
in the theory of probabilities, yet it was 
all but certain that Schiaparelli's theory 
would presently sink into oblivion. Now 
there are probably hundreds of comets 
which have a period of thirty-three and a 
quarter years, but very few are known — 
only three certainly — and one of these 
had only jdst been discovered when Adams' 
results were announced. The odds were 
enormous against the required comet 
being known, and yet greater against its 
having been so well watched that its true 
path had been ascertained. Yet the 
comet which had been discovered in that 
very year 1806 — the comet called Tern- 
pel's, or I. 1833 — was the very comet re- 
auired to establish Schiaparelli's theory. 
There was the path of the meteors assigned 
by Adams, and the path of the comet had 
been already calcalated by Tempel before 
Adams' result had been announced ; and 
these two paths were found to be to all 
intents and purposes (with an accuracy 
far exceeding indeed the requirements of 
the case) identical. 

To the remarkable coincidences here no- 
ted, coincidences rendered so much the 
more remarkable by the fact that the Au- 
gust comet is now known to return only 
twice in three centuries, while the Novem- 
ber comet returns only thrice per century, 
may be added these : — 

The comet of 1802 was observed tele- 
scopically by Sir John Herschel under re- 
markably favourable circumstances. " It 
passed us closely and swiftly," says Her- 

* Leverrier, 8chiaparellf, and others calculated 
the path on the assumption that the occurrence of 
displays three times per century implies a periodic 
circulation around the sun In about thirty-three 
years and a quarter; but Adams alone proved that 
this period, and no other, must be that of the No- 
Tomoer meteors. 

schel, " swelling into importance, and dy- 
ing away with unusual rapidity. The phe- 
nomena exhibited by its nucleus and head 
were on this account peculiarly interest- 
ing and instructive, it being only on very rare 
occasions that a comet can be closely in- 
spected at the very crisis of its fate, so 
that we can witnes3 the actual effect of 
the sun's rays on it." (This was written 
long before Schiaparelli's theory had at- 
tracted notice.) This comet w^as also the 
last observed and studied by Sir John 
Her3chel. The November comet, again, 
was the first comet ever analyzed with the 

It will be remarked, perhaps, that where 
coincidences so remarkable as these are 
seen to be possible, it may be question- 
able whether the theory itself, which is 
based on the coincidence of certain paths, 
can be accepted as trustworthy. It is to 
be noticed that, whether this be so or 
not, the surprising nature of the coinci- 
dence is in no way affected ; it would be 
as remarkable (at least) that so many 
events should concur to establish a false' 
as to establish a true theory. This 
noted, we may admit that in this case, 
as in many others, the evidence for 
a scientific theory amounts in reality 
only to extreme probability. How- 
ever, it is to be noticed that the probabili- 
ty for the theory belongs to a higher order 
than the probability against those ob- 
served coincidences which rendered the 
demonstration of the theory possible. The 
odds were thousands to one, perhaps, 
against the occurrence of these coinciden- 
ces ; but they are millions to one against 
the coincidence of the paths a3 well of the 
November as of the August meteors with 
the paths of known comets, by mere acci- 

It may possibly be considered that the 
circumstances of the two last cases are not 
altogether such as to assure us that spe- 
scial intervention was not in question in 
each instance. Indeed, though astrono- 
mers have not recognized anything super- 
natural in the series of events which led 
to the recognition of the association be- 
tween meteors and comets, some students 
of archaeology have been disposed to re- 
gard the events narrated by Dr. Young an 
strictly providential dispensations. •* It 
seems to the reflective mind," says the 
author of the Ruins of Sacred and Historic 
tends, "that the appointed time had at 
length arrived when the secrets of Egyp- 
tian history were at length to be revealed, 
and to cast their reflective light on the 
darker pages of sacred and profane history. 



. . . The incident in the labours of Dr. 
Yoang scetns so surprising that it might be 
deemed providential, if not miraculous." 
The same will scarcely be thought of such 
events (and their name is legion) as De 
Morgan has recorded ; since it requires a 
considerable stretch of imagination to con- 
ceive that either the discovery of the name 
of a certain editor, or the removal of De 
Morgan's difficulties respecting the siege of 
Boston, was a nodus worthy of miraculous 
interposition. For absolute triviality, 
however, combined with singularity of 
coincidence, a circumstance which oc- 
curred several years ago to the present 
writer appears to him unsurpassable. He 
was raising a tumbler in such a way that 
at the moment it was a few inches above 
his mouth; but whether to examine its 
substance against the light, or for what 
particular purpose, has escaped his recol- 
lection. Be that as it may, the tumbler 
slipped from his fingers and fell so that 
the edge struck against one of his lower 
teeth. The fall was just enough to have 
broken the tumbler (at least, against a 
sharp hard object like a tooth), and he 
expected to have bis mouth unpleasantly 
filled with glass fragments and perhaps 
seriously cut. However, though there was 
a sharp blow, the glass remained unbroken. 
On examining it, he found that a large 
drop of wax had fallen on the edge at the 
very spot where it had struck his tooth, 
in indentation being left by the tooth. 
Doubtless the softening of the shock by 
the interposition of the wax had just 
saved the glass from fracture. In any 
case, however, the surprising nature of 
the coincidence is not affected. On con- 
sidering the matter it will be seen how 
enormous were the antecedent odds 
i against the observed events. It is not an 
} usual thing for a tumbler to slip in such a 
▼ay : it has not at any other time happen- 
ed to the present writer, and probably not 
a single reader of these lines can recall 
such an occurrence either in his own 
experience or that of others. Then it 
very seldom happens, we suppose, that a 
drop of wax fall* on the edge of a tumbler 
and there remains unnoticed. That two 
events so unusual should be coincident, 
and that the very spot where the glass 
struck the tooth should be the place where 
the wax had fallen, certainly seems 
most surprising. In fact, it is only the 
litter triviality of the whole occurrence 
which renders it credible : it is mst one of 
those events which no one would think of 
inventing. Whether credible or not, it 
happened. As De Morgan says of the 

coincidences he relates, so can the present 
writer say for the above (equally import- 
ant) circumstance, he can " solemnly 
vouch for its literal truth." Yet it would 
be preposterous to say that there was any- 
thing providential in such an occurrence. 
Swift, in his Tale of a Tub, has indicated 
in forcible terms the absurdity of recog- 
nizing miraculous interventions in such 
cases; but should it appear to some of our 
readers that, trivial though the event was, 
the present writer should have recognized 
the hand of Providence in it, he would 
remark that it requires some degree of 
self-conceit to regard oneself as the subject 
of the special intervention of Providence, 
and moreover that Providence might have 
contrived the escape in less complicated 
sort by simply so arranging matters that 
the glass had not fallen at' all. So, at 
least, it appears to him. 

There arises, in certain case3, the ques- 
tion whether coincidences may not appear 
so surprising, as to justify the assumption 
that they are due to a real though undis- 
cerned association between the coinciding 
events. This, of course, is the very basis 
of the scientific method ; and it is well to 
notice how far this method may sometimes 
be unsafe. If remarkable coincidences can 
occur when there is no real counection — 
as wo have seen to be the case — caution 
must be required in recognizing coinci- 
dence as demonstrative of association. 

Not to take any more scientific instances, 
of which perhaps we have already said 
enough, let us consider the case of pre- 
sentiments of death or misfortune. Here, 
in the fir3t place, the coincidences which 
have been recorded are not so remarkable 
as might at first sight appear, simply be- 
cause such presentiments are very common 
indeed. A certain not unusual condition 
of health, the pressure of not uncommon 
difficulties or dangers, depression arising 
from atmospheric and other causes, many 
circumstances, in fact, may suggest (and 
do notoriously suggest) such presenti- 
ments. That some presentiments out of 
very many thus arising should be fulfilled 
is not to be regarded as surprising — on 
the contrary, the reverse would be very 
remarkable. But again, a presentiment 
may be founded on facts, known to the 
person concerned, which may fully justify 
the presentiment. *' Sometimes/ 1 says De 
Morgan on this point, " there is no mystery 
to those who have the clue." Ho cites 
instances. "In the Gentleman's Magazine 
(vol. 80, part 2, p. 33) we read, the subject 
being presentiment of death, as follows: — 
' In 1718, to come nearer the recollection 



of survivors, at the taking of Pondicherry, non-fulfilment are forgotten. It is known 
Captain John Fletcher, Captain De Mor- that instances of the latter aorb are very 
gan '" (Do Morgan's grandfather), *'*and numerous, but what proportion they bear 
Lieutenant Bosauquet each distinctly fore- to instances of the former sort, is un- 
told his own death on the morning of his known ; and while this is the case, it is im- 
fate.' I have no doubt of all three ; and I ' possible to form^any sound opinion on the 
knew it of ray grandfather long before I subject, so fur as actual evidence is con- 
read the above passage. He saw that the ; cerned. It must be remembered that in 
battery he commanded was unduly ex- this case we are not dealing with a theory 
po3ed — I think by the sap running through : which will be disposed of if one undoubted 
the fort when produced.* He represented negative instance be adduced. It is very 
this to the engineer officers, and to the ' difficult to draw the lino between dreams 

commander-in-chief; the engineers denied 
the truth of the statement, the commander 
believed them, my grandfather quietly 
observed that he must make his will, and 
the French fulfilled the prediction. His 

of an impressive nature — such dreams as 
we might conceive to be sent by way of 
warning — and dreams not specially cal- 
culated to attract the dreamer's attention. 
A dream which appeared impressive when 

will bore date the day of his death ; and I ( it occurred but was not fulfilled by the 
always thought it more remarkable than event, would be readily regarded, even by 
the fulfilment of his prophecy that a > the dreamer himself, as not intended to 
soldier should not consider any danger convey any warning as to the future. The 
short of one like the above sufficient I only way to form a just opinion would be 
reason to make his will. I suppose," pro- to record each dream of an impressive ua- 

ceeds De Morgan, " the other officers were 
similarly posted. I am told that military 

ture, immediately after its occurrence, and 
to compare the number of cases in which 

men very often defer making their wills such dreams are fulfilled with the number 
until just befora an action; but to face in which there is no fulfilment. Let us 

the ordinary risks intestate, and to wait 
nntil speedy death must be the all bnt 
certain consequence of a stupid mistake, 
is carrying the principle very far." 

As to the fulfilment of dreams and 
omens, it is to be noticed that many of 
the stories bearing on this subject fail in 
showing that the dream was fully described 
before the event occurred which appeared 
to fulfil the dream. It is not unlikely 
that if this had been done, the fulfilment, 
in many cases, would not have appeared 
quite so remarkable as in the actual narra- 
tive. Without imputing untruth to the 
dreamer, we may nevertheless — merely 

suppose that a certain class of dreams 
were selected for thi3 purpose. Thus, let 
a society be formed, every member of 
which undertakes that whenever on the 
night preceding a journey he dreams of 
misfortune on the route, he will record his 
dream, with his ideas as to its impressive- 
ness, before starting on his journey. A 
great number of such cases would soon be 
collected, and we may be sure that there 
would be several striking fulfilments, and 
prabably two or three highly remarkable 
cases of the sort ; but for our own part, 
we strongly entertain the opinion that the 
percentage of fulfilments would corre- 

by considering what is known as to ordi- spond very closely with the percentage 

'--*■ 1 -- ,: — ALi aL_ due to the common risks of travelling,' 

with or without premonitory dreams. 
This could readily be tested, if the mem- 
bers of the society agreed to note every 
occasion on which they travelled: it would 
be found, we suspect, that the dreamers 
gained little by their warnings. Sup >o.*e, 
for instance, that ten thousand journeys 
of all sorts were undertaken by the mem- 
bers of the society in the course of ten 
years, and that a hundred of these jour- 
neys (one per cent., that is) were unfortu- 
nate; then, if one-tenth of the journeys 
(a thousand in all) were preceded by 
warning dreams, we conceive that about 
ten of these warnings Tor one per cent.) 
would be fulfilled. It more were ful- 
filled there would appear, so far as the 
evidence went, to be a balance of mean- 

nary testimony — believe that the occur 
rences of the dream have been somewhat 
modified after the event. We do not 
doubt that if every person who had a 
dream leaving a strong impression on the 
mind, were at once to record all the cir- 
cumstauces of the dream, very striking 
instances of fulfilment would occur before 
long ; but at present, certainly, nine-tenths 
of the remarkable stories about dreams 
fail in the point we have referred to. 

The great objection, however, to the 
theory that certain dreams have been in- 
tended to foreshadow real events, is the 
circumstance that the instances of the ful- 
filment are related, while the instances of 

• De Morgan writes somewhat Inexactly here for 

atlclan. The *ap 

fort, but the direction of the sap so ran. 

a mathematician. The *ap did not run through the 



■g in the warnings ; if fewer, it would ap- 
pear that warning dreams were to some 
■light degree to be interpreted by the rule 
of contraries; but if about the proper 
average number of ill-omened voyages 
toned out unfortunately, it would follow 
that warning dreams had no significance 
or value whatever : and this is precisely 
the result we should expect. 

Similar reasoning, and perhaps a similar 
method, might be applied to cases where 
the death of a person has been seemingly 
eammnnicated to a friend or* relative at a 
distance, whether in a dream or vision, or 
in some other way at the very instant 
of its occurrence. It is not, however, by 
any means so clear that in such instances 
we may not have to deal with phenomena 
admitting of physical interpretation. This 
is suggested, in fact, by the application 
of considerations resembling those which 
lead to the rejection of the belief in dreams 
giving warning against dangers. Dreams 
of death may indeed be sufficiently com- 
mon, and but little stress could be laid, 
therefore, on the fulfilment of several or 
even of many such dreams. But visions 
uf the absent are not common phenomena. 
That state of the health which occasions 
the appearance of visions is unusual ; and 
if tome of the stories of death-warnings 
are to' be believed, visions of the absent 
bare appeared to persons in good health. 
Bat setting aside the question of health, 
visions are unusual phenomena. Hence, if 
any considerable proportion of those nar- 
ratives oe true, which relate how a person 
bas at the moment of his death appeared 
ma vision to some friend at a distance, 
re must recognise the possibility, at least 
that under certain conditions mind may 
act on mind independently of distance. 
The a priori objections ttf this belief are, 
indeed, very serious, but a priori reasoning 
does not amount to demonstration. We 
do not know that even when under ordi- 
nary circumstances we think of an absent 
friend, his mind may not respond in some 
degree to our tb oughts, or else that our 
thoughts may not be a response to 
thoughts in his mind. It la certaiu that 
soch a law of thought might exist and re- 
main undetected — it would indeed be 
scarcely detectible. At any rate, we know 
too little respecting the mind to be cer- 
tain that no such law exists. If it existed, 
then it is quite conceivable that the action 
of the mind in the hour of death might 
raise a vision in tbe mind of another. 

We shall venture to quote here an old 
bat well-authenticated story, as given by 
Mr. Owen in his Debatable Land between 

unxft AGB. vol, i. 11 

this World and the Next, leaving to our 
readers the inquiry whether probabilities 
are more in favour of the theory that (1) 
; the story is untrue, or (2) the event re- 
lated was only a remarkable coincidence 
between a certain event and a certain cere- 
bral phenomenon, in reality no way asso- 
ciated with it, or (3J that there wa3 a real 
association physically explicable, or (4) 
that the e^nt was supernatural. Lord 
Erskine related to Lady Morgan — her- 
self a perfect sceptio — (we wish, all the 
same, that the story came direct from 
Erskine) the following personal narrative: 
— " On arriving at Edinburgh one morn* 
ing, after a considerable absence from 
Scotland, he met in the street his father's 
old butler, looking very pale and wan. 
He asked him what brought him to Edin- 
burgh. The butler replied, u To meet 
your honour, and solicit your interference 
with my lord to recover a sum due to me, 
which the steward at the last settlement 
did not pay." Lord Erskine then told the 
butler to step with him into a bookseller's 
shop close by, but ou turning round again 
he was not to be seen. Puzzled at this he 
found out the man's wife, who lived in 
Edinburgh, when he learnt for the- first 
time that the butler- was dead, and that he" 
had told his wife, on his death-bed, that 
the steward had wronged him of some 
money, and that when Master Tom re- 
turned he would see her righted. This 
Lord Erskine promised to do. and shortly 
afterwards kept his promise." Lady 
Morgan then says, " Either Lord Erskine 
did or did not believe this strange story : 
if he did, what a strange aberration of in- 
tellect! if he did not, what a stranger 
aberration from truth I My opinion is 
that he dbl believe it." Mr. Owen deals 
with the hypothesis that aberration of in- 
tellect was in question, and gives several- 
excellent reasons for rejecting that hy*- 
pothesis ; and he arrives at the conclusion- 
that the butler's phantom had really ap- 
peared after his death. " The natural 1 in- 
ference from the facts, if they are admit- 
ted, is," he says, M that under certain oir* 
cumstances, which as yet we may be una- 
ble to define, those over whom the death- 
change has passed, still interested in the- 
concerns of earth, may for a time at least* 
retain the power of occasional interference 
in those concerns; for example, in an 
effort to right injustice done." He thus 
adopts what, for want of a better word) 
may be called the supernatural 1 interpreta- 
tion. But it does not appear from the nar- 
rative (assuming it to be true) that the* 
butler was dead at the moment when. 



Erskine saw the vision and heard the 
words. If this moment preceded the mo- 
ment of the butler 1 * death, the story falls 
into the category of those whioh seem 
explicable by the theory of brain-waves. 
We express no opinion. 

We had intended to pass to the consid- 
eration of those appearances which have 
been regarded as gho3ts of departed per- 
sons, and to the study of some other mat- 
ters which either are or may be referred 
to coincidences and superstitions. But 
our space is exhausted. Perhaps we may 
hereafter have an opportunity of returning 
to the subject — not to dogmatize upon it, 
nor to undertake to explain away the dif- 
ficulties which surround it. but to indicate 
the considerations which, as it appears to 
us, should be applied to the investigation 
of such matters by those who wish to give 
a reason for the belief that is in them. 

At present we must be content with in- 
dicating the general interpretation of co- 
incidences which appear very remarkable, 
but which, nevertheless, cannot be reason- 
ably referred to special interpositions of 
providence. x The fact really is that oc- 
casions are continually occurring where 
coincidences of the sort &tq possible, though 
improbable. Now the improbability in 
•any particular case would be a reasonable 
ground for expecting that in that case no 
coincidence would occur. But the matter 
is reversed when a great multitude of 
* oases are in question. The probable re- 
sult then is that there will be coincidences. 
We may illustrate this by reference to a 
question of ordinary probabilities. Sup- 
pose .there is a lottery with a thousand 
tickets and but one prize. Then it is ex- 
ceedingly unlikely that any particular 
ticket-holder will obtain the prize — the 
odds are, in fact, 999 to 1 against him. 
But he had one ticket in each of 
a million different lotteries all giving the 
same chance of success. Then it would 
not be surprising for his* to draw a prize ; 
on the contrary, it would be a most re- 
markable coincidence if he did not draw 
one. The same event— » the drawing of a 
prize — which in one case must be regard- 
ed as highly improbable, becomes in the 
other case highly probable. So it is with 
coincidences which appear utterly im- 
probable. It would be a most wonderful 
thing if such coincidences did not occur, 
and occur pretty frequently, in the expe- 
rience of every man, since the opportuni- 
ties for their occurrence enormously out- 
number the chances against the occurrence 
of any particular instance. 
* We may reason in like manner as to su- 

perstitions* Or rather, it is noted 
that the coincidences on which supersti- 
tions are commonly based are in many in- 
stance not even remarkable. Misfortunes 
are not so uncommon, for instance, that 
the occurrence of a disaster of some sort 
after the spilling of salt at table can be re- 
garded as surprising. If three or four 
persons, who are discussing the particular 
superstition relating to salt-cellars, can 
cite instances of an apparent connection 
between a misfortune and the contact of 
salt with a table-cloth, the circumstance is 
in no sense to be wondered at ; it would 
be much more remarkable if the contrary 
were the case. There is scarcely a super- 
stition of the commoner sort which is not 
in like manner based, not on some remark- 
able coincidence, but on tho occasional oc- 
currence of quite common coincidences. 
It may be said, indeed, of the facts on 
which nearly all the vulgar superstitions 
have been based, that it * would have 
amounted to little less than a miracle if such 
facts were not common in the experience 
of every person. Any other superstitions 
could be just, as readily started, and be 
very quickly supported by as convincing 
evidence. If the present writer were to 
announce to-morrow in all the papers 
and on every wall that misfortune is sure 
to follow when any person is ill-advised 
enough to pare a finger-nail between ten 
and eleven o'clock on any Friday- morn- 
ing, that announcement would be support- 
ed within a week by evidence of the most 
striking kind. In less than a nfonth it 
would be an established superstition. If 
this appears absurd or incredible, let the 
reader consider merely the absurdity of 
ordinary superstitious. Take, for instance, 
fortune-telling by means of cards. If oar 
police reports did not assure us that such 
vaticinatioo is believed in by many, would 
it be credible that reasoning beings could 
hope to learn anything of the future from 
the order in which a few pieces of painted 
paper happened to fall when shuffled ? 
let it is easy to see why this or any way 
of telling fortunes is believed in. Persons 
believe in the predictions of fortune-tel- 
lers for the seemingly excellent reason 
thatBuch predictions are repeatedly ful- 
filled. They do not notice that (setting 
apart happy goesses based on known facta) 
there would be as many fulfilments if 
every prediction had been precisely re- 
versed. It is the same with other com- 
mon superstitions. Reverse them, and 
they are as trustworthy as before. Let 
the superstition be that to every one 
spilling salt at dinner some great piece 



«f good lack will occar before ibe day is 
over; let seven years of good fortune be 
promised to the Derson who breaks a mir- 
ror; and so on. These new superstitions 
weald be before long supported by as 
fiod evidence as those now in existence ; 
sad they would be worth as much, since 
beta orders of superstition are worth 
atfaing. . 

•From Nature. 

Tbb prevention of sea-sickness by means 
of a swinging cabin has nothing novel 
sheet it, but the originality and inventive 
■writ in the suspended saloon devised by 
Mr. Bessemer, and now about to be actu- 
ally constructed in a ship specially designed 
far it by Mr. Beed, the late Chief Con- 
structor of the Navy, are of the highest 
order. The association of those names is 
is itself a sufficient guarantee that the 
idea will be carried into execution with 
complete security as respects the safety of 
the passengers and the seaworthiness of 
the ship, and a full knowledge of the sci- 
entmc principles involved. 

Persons suffering from sea-sickness com- 
skio not only of giddiness arising from 
themselves and everything about them be- 
ing continually in motion, but also in par- 
ticular of a qualm which comes over them 
every time the ship, or the part of it on 
which they are standing, is descending, 
sinking, as it were, from under their feet. 
As approach to this quaha is commonly 
felt in a garden swing during the descent, 
and also in jumping from considerable 
heights. There can be very little doubt 
tost this is due to the fact that the intes- 
tines are then wholly or partially relieved 
from their own weight, and therefore exer- 
cise sn unusual pressure against the stom- 
ach, liver, &nd diaphragm. This pressure 
produces the qualm, and its* rapid and fre- 
quent alternations cause sufficient irrita- 
tion to produce in most people sea-sick- 
ness, and in some persons more serious ef- 
fects. Physiologists are by no means 
agreed as to how much of sea-sickness is 
doe to this cause, and how much to the re- 
action upon the stomach of the brain-dis- 
turbance, due in part, perhaps, to the ac- 
tual motion of the head, but largely to the 
optical effect of the motion. It is pretty 
certain that all these causes contribute to 
the effect of sea-sickness. It is 
doubt that they all aggravate it. 
swinging oots or small cabins go 

but a very little way to remedy any of 
these evils. Even if suspended in two di- 
rections, like a compasa or barometer upon 
jimbals, the translatory motion, whether 
up or down, or to and fro, remains wholly 
unaltered, and even the oscillatory motion 
is not got rid of, but only altered in char- 
acter, being reduced to a minimum at a 
point near the middle of the ship. The 
distressing effect upon the eye of the rela- 
tive motion of surrounding objects also re- 
mains. These effects will not be wholly 
eliminated by Mr. Bessemer's invention; 
but some of them will be very much re- 
duced, and it remains to be seen whether 
the reduction is sufficient to get rid of the 

The design, as settled by Mr. Bessemer 
and Mr. Beed, includes the construction of 
large steam vessels of light draught, 350 
feet long, 40 feet beam, drawing 7 feet of 
water, and worked by two pairs of paddle- 
wheels. In the middle of each of these is 
provided a well, or hole, for the reception 
of a saloon 70 feet long, 20 feet wide, and 
20 feet high, constructed so as to form a 
box girder in itself, and suspended at its 
extremities upon a pair of trunnions, on 
which it can. turn, so that it may be kept 
steady as the vessel roll* from side to side. 
The saloon is not allowed to. swing quite 
freely, but its motion is controlled by hy- 
draulic machinery, acting either upon a 
rocking arm or a tangent bar (it does not 
appear as yet which has been selected), 
which enables a roan to regulate its posi- 
tion at his discretion. This man sits op* 
posite a spirit level, and, by merely turn- 
ing a handle which opens certain valves, 
can keep the bubble or the spirit level at 
zero, so as to keep the saloon virtually up- 
right at all times. The chief novelty of 
the. invention consists in two points — the 
great size of the swinging cabin or saloon, 
and the controlling of its motion by baud, 
instead of trusting to self-adjustment. 
Both these are very important improve- 
ments on the simple swinging cabin. 

This attempt to neutralize the motion 
of the vessel addresses i.tself to one phase 
of motion only, namely the rolling. Mr. " 
Bessemer makes no attempt at correcting 
either the translatory part of a ship's os- 
cillation, or the pitching. He considers 
that in large vessels such as he proposes to 
use,'bot|> these motions will be small, and 
not sufficient to cause sickness when once 
the rolling motion is got rid of. We think 
there is. very much to bear out his view of 
the case ; but we also think that, consid- 
ering the difference which alqyiys exists 
between experimental and actual circum- 



stances, and especially when we bear in 
mind that the plan does not correct the 
whole of the motion, its absolute and en- 
tire success is not by any mean? to be 
looked upon as a certainty. 

The experiment recently made at Den- 
mark Hill muse be regarded rather as 
showing the efficiency of the hydraulic ap- 
paratus for regulating the motion, than.the 
effect of its being so regulated. 

In the regular heaving of the sea, after 
the wind has blown sufficiently^ long to 
cause regular waves or swell, each particle 
of water describes a circle in a Vertical 

• plane; At the surface, the diameter of 
these circles is the whole height of the 
wave from valley to crest. These circles 
rapidly diminish in size as their depth be- 
low the surface increases. Taking into ac- 
count this diminution, as well as the effect 
of a ship's breadth, it is certain that the 
ship will not follow this circular motion at 
all to the same extent as a cork floating on 
the surface. In moderately heavy weather, 
it is probable that in such a ship as &; pro- 
posed by Mr. Bessemer, any fixed point 
could describe a circle of five or six feet in 
diameter, quite independently of any ro- 
tatory (or rocking) motion. It is much to 
be regretted that* the model at Denmark 
Hill was not mounted on a crank or eccen- 
tric, so as to combine this motion wittfthe 
simple rocking, and to ascertain how far it 
remained as a cause of real uneasiness, 
when the rocking had been eliminated. "• It 
is to be observed that a level dpe3 not give 
a fixed direction when a ship is mov- 
ing upon waves. Apart from any rolling 
of the ship's own, it gives, when ks % centre 
is describing a circle uniformly, not the di- 
rection of actual gravity, but the resultant 
of gravity and of the centrifugal force. 
In fact, instead of being horizontal with 
reference to the earth, it is horizontal with 
preference to the effective wave • surface. 
But as this is also the direction with refer- 
ence to which a man has to balance him- 
self in sitting or standing, it tells us what 
is practically, though not actually/ the' up- 

. rigbt, and therefore is probably a better 
guide than a truly vertical or. .horizontal 

Jiae. • * * J%, 

It must not be supposed that the feeding 
«f the deck sinking under one, or v the ffno- 
tion which produces this effect, is an actual 
translatory motion shared by tb^.wJiole 
vessel. By far the greater part at it is *due 
to rocking about some centre- /(whether 
fixed or instantaneous), at some distance 
from the passenger, just as a boy moves 
really up and down on a see-saw; while the 
plank simply rocks about a fixed centre. 

A very large portion of the apparent mo- 
tion of translation will therefore be cared 
by neutralizing the rocking; and so far as 
rolling is concerned, we have no doubt 
that all rocking will be effectually cured. 
Even as regards pitching, we are disposed 
to think that in large vessels this is seldom 
very troublesome when there is pitching 
and nothing else. It is the combination 
of pitching with rolling which is so diffi- 
cult to bear ; and we have reason to know 
that a vessel's pitching is almost invariably 
accompanied with a roll of very considera- 
bly greater amount than the fore and aft 
motion. Apart from the much more con- 
fused and distressing character of the 
combined motion, we think that the pitch- 
ing would be found to be a much smaller 
effect than is common' y believed, if the 
rolling were wholly got rid of. 

On the whole, while we are unwilling to 
commit ourselves to any prophecy, either 
of complete success or of partial failure, 
we think very favorabjy of the proposal. 
As a mere scientific experiment it is one 
of the very highest interest. As a practi- 
cal design it offers a sure prospect of 
realizing a large part of its intention, and 
a- fair prospect of attaining a high degree 
of success. We feel confident that it 
will save a great many who would other- 
wise suffer, from, being sea-sick at all, but 
we can hardly hope that there will, not be 
sufficient residual motion in very heavy 
weather to cause some degree of uneasi- 
ness to very sensitive persons ; nor would 
we venture to predict what will be the 
numerical reduction in the proportion of 
persons relieved from sickness, or the 
amount of alleviation to those not wholly 
saved from it. 

\t remains to say a few words on the 
question of safety. The inquiry of the 
timid will be, What if anything goes 
wrong ? How will you control this great 
moving mass of 150 or 200 tons if a valve 
should give way or a pipe burst V The 
answer is immediate. In case of accident, 
the saloon would simply be disabled from 
moving independently of the ship, and the 
worst that could happen would be that the 
passengers would not get the relief desired, 
but would simply be as in the saloon of an 
ordinary vessel, and with much better ven- 
tilation. Even if the machinery broke 
down badly, it would be the work of a 
moment for those in charge to jam the 
saloon most effectually, so as to make it a 
fixed part of the ship. The hydraulic 
machinery is similar to that which has been 
for a long time used by Mr. Bessemer in 
controlling large masses of molten iron 



tod has, therefore, been folly tested and 
shown to be efficient. 

Prom The Athenaram. 

Mb. Morris may be said to have, in 
point of form, enlarged the limits of 
English rerse in his new poem. Its me tri- 
al construction, although fundamentally, 
perhaps, the only purely national one, had 
fallen into such total disuse, that its re- 
viver might be fairly entitled to the claim 
of invention. It is the more singular that 
this species of rhythmical expression should 
have been ignored, as it clearly adapts 
itself witb admirable pliability to the 
peculiar genius of our language. No 
stronger proof of this could be adduced 
than the latest production of the poet. 

"Love is Enough " is, for the greater 
part, written in alliterative measure. This 
style of versification was habitual with 
Northern nations. It was rhymeless, like 
the poetry of the Greeks ; but possessed 
bo system of foot measure, depending on 
accent instead. The finest examples of 
this kind of verse are to be met with in 
the Icelandic songs of the Elder Edtia, 
sod in the Middle English poem of the 
fourteenth century, " Piers rlougbman." 
Some of the choicest of Eddaic pieces 
were translated with remarkable felicity 
in air. Morris's version of the Volsunsa 
Saga; but the structure of his verso iu 
the present work has a greater affinity 
with English than Norse models. 

Let us briefly examine what was the 
general law which regulated all allitera- 
tive metres. Syllables of identical sound 
sod following each other at regular inter- 
vals invariably bring about the barmoni- 
oqs unison of a couplet. The Icelandic 
language possessed a much stricter rule 
of alliteration than the Anglo-Saxon. In 
the former it was absolutely requisite that 
the first line of a couplet should possess 
two alliterative syllables; the second line 
being rigorously enchained to it from the 
necessity that its initial letter should re- 
iterate the preceding alliteration. The 
only modification of this latter rulo was, 
that occasionally a short syllable was 
allowed. to precede it. To make this sort 
of structure clear, wo will quote two lines 
from a fourteenth century Icelandic poem : 

Afapea ok ftefing sArirn ok pryol 
fifcysend full, at bctri er gulli. 

• Loeeia Enmvjh ; or, the Freeing tf Pharamrmd : 
•Uontity. ttj William Morris. (Elite * White.) 

The chief distinction between this metre 
and that in use amongst the Anglo-Saxons 
was that here we find a strict regulation 
as to the number of times tie alliteration 
may be employed. Not only was it for- 
bidden to exceed or fall short of the three 
alliterative* accents, but these must also 
succeed each other at stated periods. 

The Anglo-Saxons allowed themselves 
more latitude. They sometimes only em- 
ployed two alliterative fly 11 ables in couplets: 
of four, five, and even six accents, while, 
on the other hand, they would not scruple 
to exceed the number of three. The 
opening lines of " Piers Ploughman " may, 
however, be cited as the more regular 
specimen' of alliteration : — 

In a somer aeson 
When softe was the Sonne, 
t shpop me into shroudes 
As. I a sheep weere, 
la Habit as a heremite, 
Ur%>ly of werkes, 
W*£te wide in this world 
WoWclres to here. * 


It is'-maififest that Mr. Morris has greatly 
improved on this measure. Under his 
hands it has assumed statelier proportions. 
The rise* and fail of its sound-waves have 
acquired a more majestic sweep. The fu- 
sion of the two short lines of a couplet, aa 
formerly used, into one, thus obtaining 
four ^accents in a single line, at once gives 
more, scope to narrative, and allows of 
more 'freedom in the employment of the al- 

It would be impossible here to enter in* 
to tho minutiae of Mr. Morris's, treatment 
of alliteration, and of his deviation from 
the old writers in this respect A few 
points that have struck us most may, how- 
ever, be brefly enumerated here. Mr. 
Morris does not confine himself to the 
.three customary alliterative syllables in a 
couplet. An exquisite specimen of this 
kind may, however, stand here : — 

It shall change, we shall change, aa through rain 

and through sunshine 
The green rod of the rose-bough to blossoming 


A slighter alliteration, as here in 
••faugh" and 4i d/ossorning," is so repeat- 
edly to be met with in the track of the 
principal one, that it cannot be imputed 
to accident, and often enhances the me- 
lodious beauty of the verses. The alliter- 
ation is not always confined to a couplet, 
but is sometimes arranged in metrical 
clauses, from one and a half to two or 
three lines, apparently in harmony with 



the spirit of the narrative. For exam- 
ple : — 

Thoo hast followed raj banner amidst of the 

And seen raj faoe change to the man that thej 

Tet found me not fearful nor turned from be- 
. holding. 

Occasionally, we find a double alliteration 
of double consonants, which has a very 
.fine effect, as thus : — 

There is a place in the world, a great valley. 
That seems a green plain from the brow of the 

And again : — 

Bj thy fair wife, long dead, and thj sword* 

smitten children,. 
Bj thj life without blame, and thj love without 


Sometimes a single line will contain a 
complete alliterative verse, as thus : — 

O woe, woe is me that I maj net awaken! 

Asa splendid example of the general 
character of the metre, we will quote the 
following lines : — 

Who shall ever forget it T the dead race of thj 

And thou in thy fight-battered armour above it, 

Mid the passion of tears long held back bj the 

And thj rent banner o'er thee, and the ring of 
men mail clad. 

Victorious to-day, since their ruin not a spear- 

Was thrust away from them. — Son, think of 
thy glory; 

And e'en in tfuoh wise break the throng of these 

Here, it appears to us, we detect an ad* 
tnirable innovation on the old system* 
This consists in the rise of a new allitera- 
tive wave before the preceding one has 
completely subsided, and proauces an in- 
expressibly rich and far-reaching echo of 
sound. By such means the sense is thrown 
into .vivid relief. We not merely realize 
a scene, or an image, by means of a men- 
tal effort, but aro brought into an' imme- 
diate sensuous contact with it. Triumphs 
of this kind are of the essence of poetry. 
The least sensitive ear must, in the verses 
above cited, become con : cious of the strong 
forcible colouring which the use of alliter- 
ation imparts to the description. 

A metre which possesses such remark- 
able rhythmical capacities, while at the 
same time it allows the poet almost tfye 
latitude of prose, might have been chosen 
as the appropriate form for an English 

. Hi ad, had we. an j such. It certainly seems 
to possess, to a gjreater extent than blank 
verse, the quality of minutely assimilating 
its modulation to every gradation of the 
thought which it clothes. 

We must not forget here to point out 
the crowning beauty of this poem — its 
soogs. They are based on the same met- 
rical arrangement as the other portions, 
excepting tnat rhyme is superadded. This 
at once transforms narrative into lyrical 
poetry. The melodiousness of their liquid 
numbers makes them unique of their kind. 
We select the shortest, that it may answer 
for the rest : — 

Lov U Enough; though the World be a-wan» 

And the woods have no voice but the voice of 

Though the sky be too dark for dim ever to 

The gold-cups and daisies fair blooming there- 
Though the hills be held shadows, and the sea a 

dark wonder. 
And this day draw a veil over all deeds passed 

Yet their hands shall not tremble, their fast 

shall not falter; 
The void shall not weary, the fear shall not alter 
These lips and these eyes of the loved and the 


Turn we now to the story. In celebra- 
tion of the marriage of an emperor and 
empress a Morality is performed. A pair 
equally happy, although they be but hum- * 
ble peasant-folk, Giles and Joan, look on 
wonder-eyed from amidst the throng of 
people. The bride is held up in the crowd 
by the goodman, and their naive remarks 
form a charming introduction, as likewise 
the couple charmingly conclude the poem, 
by settling that they will invite the player- 
king and player-maiden, who are also a 
newly-wedded pair, to their homestead, 
and treat them there to the best cheer. 

In the Morality itself, in harmony with 
the character of that species of mediaeval 
play, we find one allegorical personage 
introduced. It is Love, who appears 
under various disguises, — as a king, as a 
pilgrim, as a maker of pictured cloths, — 
and who might be regarded as the real 
hero of the play, considering how com- 

{)letely he triumphs over its ostensible one, 
£ing Pharamood. This king, tho libera- 
tor of his country, whose five years* reign 
has been distinguished by the most glo- 
rious achievements, falls unaccountably 
into a strange deathlike lethargy, ft 
avails not that by order of the physicians 
he is taken on board ship, or induced to 

"LOTS is enough.' 


assist at the tournament or the bunt : for 
even should a momentary gleam of anima- 
tion sparkle op, it straightway ia quenched 
again, and learea him " with no life in hia 
lips," says the deeply-concerned Oliver, 
bis foster-father, who likened him rather 

Ha Kiag Nioarod carved fiur oa the back of the 

Warn the candlea are dying, and the high moon 

is streaming 
Through window and luffer white on the lone 

Whence the gneata are departed in the hall of 

the palace. 

At last, in hie garden, with none but the 
lilies for listeners, the King, partly roused 
from hia trance, reveals to Master Oliver 
the secret of hia malady. He loves, but 
the loved one baa appeared to him in 
dreams only. lie proceeds to describe 

Vm years are paased Over sine© In the fresh 

Oa the field of that fight I lay wearied and 

131 dumber came o'er me in the first of the 

lata as there lay my body rapt away was my 

And a cold and thiok mist for awhile was .about 

And when that cleared away, lo, the mountain- 
walled country 

'Heath the first of the sunrise in e'en aneh a 

As the spring-tide eur horse hoots that y e s ter s re 
trampled : 

By the withy-wrought gate of a garden I found 

'Hewn the goodly green boughs of the apple 

And fulfilled of great pleasure I was as I entered 
The fair place of flowers, and wherefore I knew 


Then lo, mid the birds* song a woman's voice 

Pit e years passed away, in the first of the sem- 

Sinee then, through all the turmoil and 
strife of his stormy glorious career, the 
vision of her remains in his heart. *As 
great armies fell back before the rumour 
of bis coming, and freed cities welcomed 
his entrance, it ever seemed to him that 
she beckoned him onward, and. over and 
over again his spirit met her in that same 
"monntaiu-walled country," with its green 
plain and narrow gorge, " fulfilled by a 
slack wood of yew-trees." But when his 
empire waa well established, every invader 
conquered, ibe vision seemed to fade, 
while bis longing grew but the more eager 
and fierce. ♦ At last, but a month from the 

time be ia speaking, he found himself ono» 

Fulfilled of all joy at the edge of the yew-wood; 
Then lo, her gown's flutter in the fresh brseaw 

of morning. 
And slower and statelier than her wont waa 

And fairer of form, toward the yew-wood aba 

But woe's me! sa she came and at last wsa be- 
side roe, 
With sobbing scarce ended her bosom was heav- 

Stained with tears was her face, and her month 

was yet qaiyering 
With torment of weeping held back for a season. 
Then swiftly my spirit to the King's bed waa 

While still toward the asm were her weary fast 

— Ah, surely that day of all wrongs that I 

Mine own wrongs seemed heaviest and hardest. 

to bear — 
Mine own wrongs and hers — till that past year 

of ruling 
Seemed a crime and a folly. Night came, and I 

saw her 
Stealing barefoot, bareheaded, amidst of the 

Made grey by the moonlight : and a long time 

Lore gare me 
To gaze on her weeping. Morn came* and I 

wakened — v 

I wakened and said : — Through the World will 

I wander, 
Till euher I find her, or find the World empty. 

The upshot of this is, that he and his 
foster-father start in quest of the dream- 
land* and dream-maiden. And three weary 
years of seeking have elapsed before we 
meet them again in a forest among the 
hills of a foreign land. The King has fal- 
len sick, and well-nigh despairs of success. 
Nevertheless, they journey on once again, 
till Pfearamond, quite exhausted, feels bis 
limbs fail tinder him, and sinks down on 
the highway, which is covered by a thiok 
mist. Oliver, sorely troubled, departs in 
search of help; for, the mist growing 

There eome sounds through its dulness. 
The lowing of kine, or the whoop of a shepherd, 
The bell-wether's tinkle, or clatter of horse- 

A homestead is nigh. 

While he ia gone, Love himself approaches- 
the King; they hold converse together, 
interrupted by delicious snntche* of song, 
during which the latter again falls asleep. 
Then at last Azalais, the dream-girl, 
draws near. Lore departs joyftil, and she, 



seeing him lying there by. the wayside, 

beauty ton blemished 

By sorrow and sickness, and for all that the 

stoops down and kisses him. 

Thus the long que3t is ended. The 
seeker has found the sought, the lover his 
loved one. But still there is no peace for 
him. The memory of the kingdom he has 
left, -of the vacant throne, of his people 
yearning to see his face again, now tnat 
his desire is attained, comes back to him 
once more, drawing him thither. He 
therefore returns across the sea with his 
faithful Oliver. But his city knows him 
no more, and he discovers "that much 
may be forgot in three Years' space." 

A new king sits on his throne, and he 
passes unrecognized through the throng 
of many well-known faces. Oliver would 
have him once again draw his sword and 
conquer his empire afresh. But Phara- 
mdnd is not minded thus. Having left all 
for Love, he likewise finds that " Love is 
Enough " for him, and to Oliver's ques- 
tion, — 

In what land of the world shall we dwell now 
henceforward ? 

he makes answer — 


In the land where my love oar returning aoideth, 
The poor land and kinglest of the shepherding 

There is peace there, and all things this land are 

unlike to. 

On considering tttis story, this dream 
within a dream rather, we are conscious 
of a strangely-mingled sensation, in which 
exquisite enjoyment is yet tinged by a 
shade of regret. The rare mastery, with 
which Mr. Morris handles an unusual and 
truly magnificent form of versification, — 
a form the full scope of which reveals it- 
self in passages where the grandeur of 
conception requires to be vigorously em- 
bodied, — is father to the wish that the 
subject thus presented had been possessed 
of loftier proportions. 

In this metre we may repeat Homer 
would for the first time become truly nat- 
uralized on English soil. In this metre 
some of the grand but fragmentary Norse 
tales might, for the first time, unfold their 
eagle plumage to the full, or the Arthuri- 
an legends at last attain to complete de- 
velopment. Mr. Morris has already, in 
his earliest work, selected some incidents 
irom the latter for poetical presentation, 
and he was singularly successful. Why 
should he not once again select this sub- 

jeot for more exhaustive treatment? — 
for it seems to be the only really national 
tradition which contains inherent, epic 
and narrative capacities. And the mys- 
ticism, the weird sweetness, of these Celt- 
ic legends, their strange, dreamy fascina- 
tion, would marvellously harmonize with 
some of the most distinctive characteristics 
of Mr. Morris's genius. 

Surely the fact of Mr. Tennyson having, 
in a manner, for the first time selected 
this theme, could not and. ought not to 
act as a deterrent motive. As it is, his 
Idyls, beautiful as they are for the greater 
part, do not pretend to any faithful ren- 
dering of the spirit of the old tale, but 
aim at a perfectly modern and individual 
treatment. So far from precluding, this 
method of (Jealing with the subject would 
rather seem to challenge a fresh attempt, 
starting from an entirely different con- 
ception. There would be a double charm 
in this : that of the work itself in the first 
instance; in the second, the pleasure 
which is always experienced in instituting 
a comparison of the dissimilarity of treat- 
ment between similar subjects. For ia 
this treatment, of course, reside the Al- 
pha and Omega of the poet's power ; and 
we are inclined to think that, on the 
whole; it is rather a gain than a loss to 
Art that the same theme should be handled 
over and over again. If we had as many 
" King Arthurs " as the Greeks possessed 
tragedies concerning the woes of the 
house of Agamemnon, or the Italians 
representations of the Madonna, we should 
probably find that in some way we could 
not fail to attain some culminating achieve- 
ment. And one inestimable result would 
certainly be arrived at, the poet would at 
once have a type, a firm substratum, 
which, like the block of marble under the 
sculptor's hands, he could mould, elaborate, 
and fashion forth into perfect loveliness, 
while, nevertheless, he in some senses 
would be bound down by the necessary 
conditions of his material. This, it ap- 
pears to us, is an immense advantage to 
the.poet, and it will be a subject of regret 
if he doe 8 not avail himself of it. That 
King Pharamond is no such type, it is un- 
necessary to add. He is, in fact, but a 
vague shadowy kiu<|, whose deeds impress 
us with a sense of unreality akin to his 
dreams. Who can deny, however, that 
these possess an exquisite enchantment, 
which transports us for the time into a ■ 
land of mingled romance and faerie, or 
resist the un definable sweet glamour they 
cast over him? In fact, this kind of 
poetry always produces on our imagination 



tn effect somewhat resembling the impres- 
aioo received on looking at a familiar 
landscape through the mellow emblazoory 
of a painted casement. We cannot any 
that objects we aee thus are idealized ; for 
to idealize is not to lose sight of reality, 
bat to sever what is impure and transient 
from the lofty and imperishable. Here, 
however, if the comparison be permissible, 
we see reality, not enhanced, but trans- 
formed. We behold her through an unfa- 
miliar medium of strange and deceptive 
splendour; and it is in this splendour, 
glowiog as well aa soft, that the present 
poem is steeped. 

From The St. Junes Magazine. 

Nevertheless, this wicked hatred dis- 
tressed me, and on one occasion I lost ail 
patience over it. It occurred as follows : — 

People who live in the Vosges are great 
observers of high days and holidays, prin- 
cipally those instituted for children. - 

First, in point of date, is the/eteof St. 
Nicholas, the great patron saint of Lor- 
raine. He is represented with a tall twig 
basket on his back, a bell in one hand, and 
s rod in the other, that has been steeped 
in vinegar. The second fete is Christmas 
Day, which comes decked out with wood- 
en swords, cakes, and in the houses of the 
rich, small fir-trees loaded with gilded 
vots, ribbon, wax-lights and sweats. The 
taird file is New Year's* Day, and then 
comes Twelfth Night, which is the mer- 
riest of all, when snow lies deep on the 

A large number of children go their 
rounds in the village dressed in long white 
gowns, to figure the drapery of the three 
kings from the East. With their painted 
paper crowns on, and wooden sceptres 
over their shoulders, they look exactly 
Hke kings in a pack of cards. 

Thus attired, they enter every hut and 
bouse, singing an old ballad, of which the 
words are in such old patoi* that it is al- 
most difficult to make them out ; but they 
mean, "the three kings have come to wor- 
ship the Lord ?" after which prefatory an- 
nouncement the children! suddenly fall 
down prostrate, crying out in a chorus, 
* We kneel." 

The villagers 6end them away with 
not*, dried plums, apples, eggs, and but- 
ter. The grand time for them is when 
they come to the school-house, which they 
cater majestically, singing, and exciting 

the uuiversal admiration of their school- 
fellows, while Herod, who is hidden under 
the doorway, stands waiting for his turn 
to enter. 

The girls and boys all envy these short- 
lived Magi, and when the singers have 
left, the master takes this opportunity to 
relate the story of the three kings, as it is 
told in the Bible ; how they came to adore 
our Lord in the small village of Bethle- 
hem, in Judea; and how they found Ilirn 
in a crib anion 2 cattle and poor shepherds. 
He describes the lovely bright star going 
before the three kings, showing one car- 
rying incense, another * myrrh, and the 
third, gold. 

I told them this story, and the little 
girls sat straining their eyes as they list- 
ened, and leaning over the front railing in 
undivided attention, while the boys sat 
with crossed arms in deep thought. 

A few days later, I thought I would see 
how much they had retained of the story, 
and questioned them about it. Not one 
of the boys could remember a word; even 
George could make neither head nor tail 
out of it. I told Louise to stand up. and 
try, which she did instantly, and related 
the tale of the three kings from beginning 
to end in a clear, ringing voice, taking her 
time leisurely over it, and making it as im- 
pressive as I could myself. 

u Very well told, Louise ; sit down. I 
have not been so pleased with you for a 
long time/' 

Her face was glowing over with joy, and 
George's features were suddenly overcast. 

Now; on that same day, when school was 
over, I opened the windows, in order to 
change the air of the room a little, and on 
doing so I saw the children running through 
the snow ; some of them were standing in 
a long: string on a slide that the frost had 
glazed over round our fountain. 

Boys and girls were together, shouting, 
waving their arms, striking their wooden 
shoes on the ice ; while the more accom- 
plished among them we're on all fours, 
sliding along on their heels and hands, or 
in a sitting posture. It was a pleasant 
thing to see all these little women's round 
faces and red noses coming out of their 
coifs and hoods, and the boys swaying to 
and fro to keep steady. 

I had been observing all this for a min- 
ute or more when Louise, full of fun and 
excitement, got on the ever-lengthening 
slide among the boys. She skimmed on 
like a fearless bird, with her open mantle 
flowing out like wings on both sides. At 
the same moment George hurried forward, 
and, giving her a push with his elbow aa 



he went by to get on before her, 'threw her 
down in the snow. 

I was indignant, rushed out, picked her 
up, and called George back. 

Hot tears were running down his cousin's 
cheeka ; luckily she was not hurt. 

George pretended he did not hear, and 
thought he would run off. 

" Come back, sir," I called ; " come back 
directly, you mischievous boy." 

I then took hold of him by the arm and 
led him into the school-room, saying as we 
went along, 

" You did it on purpose ; I am sure you 
did." He was very white, but did not 

"Did you do it on purpose? "Answer 
me this moment." 

But George was too proud to tell a 
story, and, without uttering a syllable, sat 
at the farther end of a beucb, looking with 
a fierce fixed gaze straight in front of him. 

" As you will not answer," I continued, 
" it is certain you did it on purpose, think- 
ing you would pay Louise back for know- 
ing the story of the three kings better 
than you. You wanted to hurt her .... 
it is the wickedest . . . you deserve to be 
punished. I mean to keep you in; you 
shall not go home to dinner." 

Saying this I left the school-room, lock- 
ing the door and taking the key with me. 
I was quite upset. 

I sent my wife to inform George's pa- 
rents that he was punished, and when I 
went down to the school-room again, a lit- 
tle before one o'clock, 1 found the boy sit- 
ting on the same bench, with his elbows on 
the table, his cheeks in the palms of his 
two hands, and still gazing on the same 
spot in front of him. 

II Are you sorry for what you have 
done ? " I asked gently. Not a word. 

" Say you will never do it again." No 
reply. I felt very embarrassed and an- 
noyed, as I went about the school-room 
getting things ready for the afternoon les- 

His mother arrived soon after, carrying 
the child's dinner under her apron. Her 
eyes were swollen. I told her what had 
occurred. She looked at George very sad- 
ly as she placed the porringer before him ; 
he, however, ate heartily, and, when he had 
done, walked to his desk, where he patient- 
ly waited the return of his schoolfellows. 
. " Ah, Monsieur Florent ! " said his moth- 
er, on leaving the house, " it is a terrible 
affliction ; but they are all the same — 
they are Rantzaus all over -' . . . 

When Louise came back she appeared 
perfectly happy, and from time to time 

cast a glance of satisfaction at bar oous* 

For the next six weeks, whenever I 
questioned George he did not look me in 
the face, for he had what schoolboys call a 
spite against me. When they feel tfrift 
sort of thing they fancy they conceal it by 
looking sideways. 

"Look at me, George," I said; but ha 
did not, and remained silent and gloomy 
the whole winter. 

One spring day, however, he happened 
to know his lesson better than Louise or 
any one in the school, and I held him up as 
a pattern to the others. 

His eye instantly met mine, and he ap- 
peared reconciled. 


Events of a more serious nature took 
place at. about this time in the village. 

Our mayor, AL Fort in, died. He had 
lived over eighty years, had been a soldier, 
public-house keeper, a dealer in timber, 
and, finally, the mayor of Chaumes — a 
station he had filled for many years. 

His end had been looked forward to by 
the housewives of the village a long time 
before it took place, as all nad set their 
eyes beforehand on some object or other 
in which they were desirous to iuvest on 
the sale of the mayor's properties* One 
had made up her mind to purchase the 
large painted soap-tureen; another, the 
plates ; a third, the kettle, or the aide- 
board, or the table. 

Mayor Fort i a held out a long time in 
spite of his rheumatism ; he clung to life 
until the report spread that he had ex- 
pired in the night; and this time it was 

His sale was the larg^t I have witnessed 
in the mountains, and it was also a moat 
arduous contest, several villagers having 
had leisure to set their hearts on the same 

I will pass over in silence an account of 
the formality of placing seals on all the 
mayor's possessions, and that of taking 
them off again. I will say nothing of ail 
the preliminary noticing, posting, and other 
usual ceremonies that are gone through 
every where. I will describe the sale it- 
self, and the manner of transferring prop- 
erty to the last and highest bidder, on 
which occasion the mountaineer's love of 
gain was shown in all its nativo violence. 
My wife had long envied two of the may- 
or's brass candlesticks; she had thought 
of them for three long years, and on the 
morning of the sale came to me saying, -— 

" We really are in want of a few littta 



things, Threat ; and we must have a pair 
of candlesticks ; we might just as well buy 
the mayor's, what say you i " 

1 knew these candlesticks w ere her weak 
point, and answered, — 

44 All right, Marie- Barbe ; we can leave 
at eleven, after school." 

Bat she could not wait so long patiently, 
and came to look at the clock several times, 
through the sash-window. 

From my place in the school-room I 
could see. what was going on round the 
mayor's house. The Bale had commenced 
very early, and all sorts of things had 
been carried out on the tables brought 
down in the yard. There were gridirons, 
cauldrons, kettles, roasting-jacks, bottles, 
chairs, clocks ; in fact, movables which for 
fifty years had accumulated from the cellar 
to the loft; spinning-wheels, bundles of 
flax, the winder, the barometer, table-linen, 
bed-linen, . . . and, Heavens above 1 what 
money must have been spent on that 
house 1 Such houses are perfect gulfs, and 
women never have enough ; if they were 
bsteued to, one would buy every thing. 

The crier, Lemoine, and the attorney, 
Bajolet dstLorquin, with his head clerk, 
fccbott, were in the centre of the busy 
crowd. Lemoine's shouts, from the top of 
the table on which he stood, could be heard 
at the other end of the village. 

"Going, going; one — two — two. No 
one to bid any higher? A magnificent 
kettle — three francs, ten sous." 

He then lifted the kettle for every body 
to take stock of it. 

"Three francs, ten sons." 

" Four francs," cried a voice. 

u Four francs," went on Lemoine ; u one, 
two, the kettle is going for four francs. 
No one says a word more ? Going, going 
— one, two, three — gone ! The kettle 
belongs to Pierre Jean Machet." 

I could follow all this, and notice my 
wife coming down every now and then be- 
sides. Such exciting sceues do not, fortu- 
nately, occur very often, as they would put 
an end to all teaching and learning in a 
Tillage. As to my scholars, they were 
quite impatient to be on the field of ac- 
tion ; therefore, just ou the stroke of eleven 
I called for prayers, and the last word, 
a Amen," was scarcely uttered, when a* 
general scramble out ensued, the children 
flocking off like sheep, and wishing me a 
hearty good-bye. 

I was not sorry to get t rid of them, for 
my wife was ngain at the sash-window, re- 
minding me it was high time to be off- 

b l'm ready," I replied, much amused* 
and to the sale we went. 

It was a great relief to find that the 
brass candlesticks were not yet sold, though 
such small articles were nearly all disposed 
of. The plates, glasses, saucepans, and 
other kitchen utensils, had just been carried 
off; the cupboards, chairs, and armchairs 
were now coming on. Marie- Bar be pulled 
me on by the arm, till we got all among 
the people, who not only swarmed around, 
but filled the mayor's house from roof to 
cellar, and were shouting from the windows 
to their friends in the street. It was a 
fearful din. 

"Come this way, Monsienr Florent," 
cried Botte, the forest-keeper, as soon as 
he saw us. Ke was a good-humoured, 
stout man, and his big green over-coat, 
with a hood to it, was rather tight for his 
corpulent figure. "This way, Mon ieur 
and Madame Florent," he again cried, 
clearing a passage for ns with his wide 

M So you, too, have a mind to bid for 
something, Monsieur Florent ? " he asked. 

I was going to reply that we meant to 
have the candlesticks, but my wife stopped 
me by pulling my arm. 

" Well," she put in, « that all depends, 
Monsieur Botte; wo shall see." 

We were close to the table, near the 
clerk, who was making entries in a regis- 
ter on a desk ; and there was the lawyer 
in a great passion with parties who were 
known to be bad pay and would insist on 
bidding without offering any caution. He, 
after some altercation, settled them by 
striking their names off the liet ; the con- 
sequence was, they clenched their fists at 
him, threatening all manner of things. 
The gendarme Lallemand was fortunately 
standing by, with his hand resting on the 
hilt of bis sword ; and, when the confusion 
became too unbearable to be tolerated, he 
had but to cast a glance arouud, and look 
at the riotous in a way which quieted 
them instantly,. After this, unruly pur- 
chasers made up for their disappointment 
by drinking the wine of the sale, for it was 
a great fashion in those times to keep up 
people's spirits by giving them as much 
wine as they liked. Some drank as many 
as two and three measures of red or white, 
and, though it cost nothing at the time, 
they found it very dear the next day. We 
were pretty quiet when we once found 
standi ng L room among the crowd. The 
villagers exchanged friendly greetings, 
many offering to take wine with me, and 
talking, as we did so, over their great bar- 
gains, principally of the landed property 
that was going to be sold. There was an 
end to bidding such small sums as two 



and three francs ; hundreds and thousands 
were coming on, and purchasers were not 
plentiful. The two Jews, Samuel Levy 
and tall Judas Mayer d'Iniling, were pres- 
ent. They were standing with others at 
the farther end of the deceased mayor's 
ground-floor room. Short drovers' sticks 
hung from a leather cord to their wrists, 
and flat cap3 were pulled over their eyes. 
There were present also the Restiguar. 
brothers, Monsieur Barabino der Harberg, 
Monsieur Bauquel de Saintquirin, Mon- 
sieur Ristraph d'Abrecheville, sur- 
named "the Prince/' on account of his im- 
mense fortune; finally, all the big heads 
of the environs, and, besides these, there 
were Jean and Jacques Rantzau in the 
dark, looking on at the sale of small things. 
as if it bored them immensely. One was 
bald and tall, the other square and thick- 
set, with a frizzly head and full beard ; 
both had long hooked noses, glassy eyes, 
and wide jaws tightly pressed together. 
They were equally pale', arid did not seem 
to attend to what the Jews were telling 
them. > I could see all this by looking over 
people's- heads aud standing on the tips of 
my toes. My wife looked at nothing but 
the brass candlesticks and the sale of the 
remainder of the furniture. Suddenly 6he 
caught my arm ; Lemoine was holding up 
the candlesticks. 

" A pair of brass candlesticks " he cried 
(he was as hoarse as could be after two 
hours' incessant shouting) ; " two fine 
candlesticks I " He then had to stoop down, 
and ask how much they were priced at. 

" Two francs," replied Monsieur Bajolet. 

"Two francs; two magnificent candle- 
sticks!" cried Lemoine, looking round. 
" Forty sous ; allons, ladies, a little spirit ! " 

I was going to bid fifty sous, but my 
wife, with more cunning, said, ** Forty-five 

Lemoine looked our way. 

44 Forty-five sous; going, going; forty- 
five sous! no higher bidder'? One — two 
— three — gone I " 

He handed the candlesticks to my wife, 
good-hum ouredly saying, u A splendid 
bargain, Madame Flore nt ; they pre worth 
four francs as true as two farthings." 

Marie-Barbe did not- stay the sale out, 
but, being fully satisfied with her candle- 
sticks, left soon after; but I was much in- 
terested in the novel proceedings, and 
waited for the grand sale of immovables, 
when francs would be bid by hundreds 
and thousands. A spectator of such 
scenes as these fancies all the time that he 
feels his blood boiling, while the greed he 
notices in others, their frenzy, and shouts, 

seem to be contagious, and' that he is un- 
dergoing the same sensations as the chief 
actors. I was, therefore, .riveted to the 
spot, looking forward to the sale of fields, 
meadows, orchards, and the house as if 
they concerned me. 

Father Botte, who was standing next to 
me, said, " This is only the beginning as 
yet, Monsieur Florent; the skirmishing is 
over, and now the real fight is coming 

He was right. Towards half-past 
eleven, all the furniture be'ng sold, there 
was some talk of putting the rest of the 
sale off to the following day; but the at- 
torney, who was a sly fox, seeing the pur- 
chasers were in good condition and get- 
ting warm, exclaimed, " Lemoine, there 
will be plenty of time for rest to-morrow. 
It is well to beat while the iron is hot; 
let us go into the bouse." 

The clerk then took his register under 
his arm, Lemoine carried the desk, and 
all entered the large, full room. The at- 
torney took possession of the centre, and 
Monsieur Bajolet read out the terms of 
sale. They were very pimple. Cash was 
to be forthcoming at the end ^f a year 
and a day, including interest at five per 
cent., or ready money could be paid down 
immediately, according to the wish of par- 

After this the sale begao, a thick crowd 
of people pressing round the table. I was 
somewhat behind, and could only see the 
faces of those in front of me —-^Samuel 
Levy, Jean and Jacques Rantzau, and tall 
Judas Mayer. 

The first things sold were an orchard 
and a few corn and oat fields on the slope, 
the boundaries and everything connected 
with each being minutely described, but 
neither did hundreds nor thousands come 
down, the Jews having little to do with the 

Now and then the attorney would assist 
Lemoine by repeating the prices. He also 
stepped outside from time to time to say 
that such or such an orchard was goiug to 
be sold." A few men, until then kept back 
by their remonstrating wives, would slowlv 
come in ; for if women love movables, 
men love immovables, which gives rise to 
quarrelling between them, the husband 
wanting to buy what his wife will not let 
hUn, when they come to hands the latter 
holding out to the end, and screaming at 
the top of her voice, " No, no, no I " 

These were the sort who came in and 
collected round the table. Up to this 
Jime the people of the place and environs 
alone had invested. 



1 I was going to jeave, as it was Dearly 
twelve, and I feared Marie -Bar be was wait- 
ing for dinner, when, just as I had turned 
away, the notary, raising his voice, 89 id, — 

44 We are goin<? to se.ll, in one lot, the 
fire acres of land that extend from the 
river-side to the large meadow of Jacques 
Rantzau, which it joins at the upper end, 
and which is better known as the meadow 
of Guisi. Let it be understood that it is 
ail to be sold in one lot. Now, Lemoine, 
go on." 

Upon which Lemoine climbed up on his 
chair, crying out, — 

* Fire acres of meadow-land for fifteen 
hundred francs; fifteen hundred francs 
for fiVe acres of land ; three hundred 
francs per acre ; five acres for fifteen hun- 
dred francs ! " , 

u Two thousand I " bid one of the Jews. 

"Two thousand two hundred!" struck 
up the other. 

They went on in this way for some time, 
each bidding a hundred francs higher in 
tarn until they reached three thousand, 
when Monsieur Botte whispered, — 

"Samuel is Jean Rantzau's man, and 
Judas stands there for Jacqnes ; the fight 
is between the two brothers." 

I turned and took a look at Jean and 
Jacques; they appeared cool enough, but 
gloomy. This lasted about" half an hour, 
the rival bidders coming to four thousand 
francs by adding on fifty to each offer. At 
this point the Jews hesitated, not daring to 
bid higher without a sign from the broth- 

All at once Jean's face brightened. 
"Four thousand five hundred I" he thun- 

" Five thousand 1 " said Jacques with a 

"Five thousand five hundred I " retorted 

u Six thousand 1 " shouted Jacques, with- 
out looking at his brother ; but his eyes 
were sunken in and his teeth clenched. 

* Six thousand five hundred 1 " roared 

When Jacques heard this he burst into 
a fit of laughter, and, clearing a passage' 
through the crowd, left the house with his 
hands thrust in his pockets, saying, "It is 
too dear for me." 

As Jean passed me a moment after, I 
heard him say, " It is rather heavy pay, 
hut such a meadow as that in one piece 
▼ould be too good a thing for a single 
person ; 1 wanted my share, and now I 
have it." 

As he walked down the street very 
dowly I followed him ; Samuel, the Jew, 

kept by his side. They were seen coming 
along from a distance by Jacques and tail 
Judas, both standing at the door looking 
at them. 'All the good humour shown by 
Jacques at the sale had abandoned him; 
bis mirth had turned into sadness when ho 
reflected that the fine Guisi meadow ho 
had always hoped to have all to himself at 
the deuth of old Fortin was now, so to say, 
cut in two bf the piece Jean had bought. 

When I came to consider how deeply 
the two brothers hated each other, I'felt a 
kind of apprehension on my own account, 
fancying I had given Jacques some annoy- 
ance by punishing his son for rude be- 
haviour to Louise. This fear was all the 
more grounded as there was a rumour 
afloat that Jacques would succeed Monsieur 
Fortin as mayor of Chaumes, in which 
office he would have it iif his power to 
injure me considerably. I Felt uneasy the 
whole evening through lessonfe, perplexed 
as I was by mv difficulties" with the two 
children of such men as these Rantzans. 
I was as much in fear of one as of the 
other, never having had an example of 
such dangerous dispositions. 

On the same day,' towards seven, I was 
talking of them to my wife over supper, 
and she was advising me to be always on 
my guard, when we heard some one come 
up-stairs, then knock at our door. 

" Come in/ 1 said Marie-Barbe. 

It was George, with a basket on his arm. 

" Good evening, Monsieur and Madame 
Florent; I have brought you something 
with my parents' compliments." 

My wife lifted up the lid of the basket. 
It contained splendid pork chops and 
lovely black puddings, tastefully laid out 
on a large dish. We both expressed our 

"I declare !*' cried my wife, "how 
shall we ever thank you " 

" We killed a pig yesterday," *aid 
George, "and my father gave particular 
orders that the best part should be kept for 

We were quite astonished. 

I made George fill his pockets with nuts,' 
telling him he was to convey our thanks 
to his parents for their kind attention. 

He said he would, and left us in high 
spirits. Thus, instead of our being on a 
bad footing with Jacques Rantzau, as we 
had feared was the case, he looked on us 
as friends, such presents as. the. above 
being made to none who are not on pleas- 
ant terms with each other. 

I need not* add that those chops and 
black puddings, coming as they did from 
the hands of Madame Charlotte Rantzau, 



were the very best we had ever eaten. 
Seasoning is not spared in such a larder 
as hers; besides, with the exception of 
Madame Guerito Simon, the brewer's wife, 
no other cook in the place could come up 
to her. What delighted us most, however, 
was the certainty that we lived in peace 
with every one. Without quiet all else is 
bitterness. I perceived that, though the 
two Rantzaus hated each other, they were 
sensible enough to leave their neighbours 
alone, and that they considered education 
as a great good. 

Monsieur Jean bowed whenever I had 
the honour to meet him in the village or 
elsewhere; his brother pulled his hat off 
to me likewise; consequently I enjoyed 
perfect calm in the performance of my 

No one had a better right than Cure' 
Jannequin to inculcate Christian feelings 
in the hearts of the notables at Chaumea, 
and that by reason of his great age and 
holy profession. I shall never forget how 
nicely he one day told Jean some big 
truths, without seeming to be talking at 
him at all. 

It was on a Thursday morning, during 
the heated term, and about three months 
after the death of Monsieur Forvin. The 
curd had sent me word to say an accident 
had happened up in the heights, and that 
we were to carry the holy Viaticum to the 
hamlet of Bruycres. Thursday is a kind 
of holiday, and all the school-children are 
sent out to pick up sticks in the forest ; 
therefore it was not easy to find a boy to 
carry the bell. Fortunately, George "Rant- 
zau came our way. " George/' said I, " run 
aud tell your father there is some one 
dying at Bruycres, aud I want you to 
carry the bell. There is no time to lose." 

Boys are always pleased to run for any 
thing, and are particularly fond of taking 
parUn all ceremonies, even mournful ones ; 
so on he went. I returned to the vestry, 
where I dressed, and had just finished 
when he came back. I then clothed him 
in a surplice, and gave him a Ijaod-bell. 
The curd was waiting for as at the pres- 
bytery, whither we hurried, and thence 
set out, carrying the holy Viaticum. 

It was a very serious case ; John Peter 
Abba, one of Jean Rantzau's woodcutters, 
had fallen off a great fir-tree he was in the 
act of lopping, and his thighs having struck* 
against a great protruding root, all the 
lower part of his body was deadened by 
the blow, and inert. As we strided along, 
all tho old people came running to their 
windows, saying a short prayer. When 
we were once on the slope, and had got in 

the narrow sandy path which runs along 
among broom and heath, the heat was bo 
intense we had to slacken our pace ; no 
one spoke, yet thoughts of death suggest- 
ed the following : — 

" What is man, Q God ? These millions 
of swarming insects around ; these ants, 
which manifest Thy greatness and love; 
even the soil under our feet teems with 
life, whereas one of our poor fellow- 
men lie < yonder without hope, and help- 
less. What would man be more than an 
•iusect if eternal life had not been prom- 
ised him ? " 

Our faces were covered with perspira- 
tion, aud the care*, somewhat bent with 
age, was compelled to stop every now and 
then to take breath. The austere aspect 
of the heights, the barren soil on which 
grew nothing but brambles and heath, the 
perpendicular rocks on a line, the mid-day 
calm, which was so complete that the 
slightest rustle or cry of the grasshopper 
could be heard, are to be put down among 
those things one can fancy, but not de- 

I had never come so far, aud it seemed 
quite extraordinary that human beings 
should live so much out of the way. Ev- 
ery other minute I wondered how they 
gained a livelihood, what they ate. I 
looked about and saw nothing. I won- 
dered what sort of homes they had, and it 
was a full hour's walk farther on before I 
perceived a few old hovels roofed with 
wood. Instead of windows there were 
loopholes, some of which were stuffed with 
straw to keep the air out, and others filled 
with* cracked panes of glass to let the light 
in. The doors were unhung and stood 
awry; the steps outside were worn and 
disjoined; altogether they were most 
wretched hovels, more like dens for wild 
beasts than habitations for human beings. 
I thought I knew all about misery before I 
came here, but I soon changed my mind. 
From the front of one of these abomina- 
ble homes a group of men, women, and 
children stood looking at us. The men 
were in linen trousers, worn out at the 
knees; the women's gowns were in the 
same condition, while their hair hung down, 
their backs like skeins of flax. What more 
can I say ? Nothing, but that this place ia 
Las Bruyeres. 

On a little elevation in the background 
stretched a few patches of field that looked 
as if they had been turned over, but on 
which, for want of water, nothing grew. 
It was hard to find out that these were 

When we came to John Peter Abba ? a 



door, George rang his bell, and the wretch- 
ed people fell on their kneea. We first 
entered a kind of kitchen, having a hearth 
in one corner, which was covered with 
ashes; the beams of the ceiling were so 
low we had to take oar hats off. An old 
grey-haired woman was seated on a stool. 
She was half doubled in two, and had 
thrown her yellow, skinny arms over her 
head ; she did not move, but now and then 
a sadden sob would make her shake all 
over. Monsieur Jean Rantzau and Louise 
were standing by her, for they had hurried 
to Bruycres, and Monsieur Jean was say* 

rag,— " 

**Come, Zalie, pick pp courage. I shall 
sot forsake you — never — never. John 
Peter was a good labourer ; an old com- 
panion — one of my father's men. Fear 
nothing — trust to me." 

But the afflicted woman did not answer. 
She bad her head on her knees, and was 
barefoot. I had never seen anything so 
harrowing, and turned quite pale ; so did 
the care'. Monsieur Jean went on, — 

k You must bear in mind, Zalie, that you 
hare still your good son Cyriaque ; he will 
serer be out of work. I shall always em- 
ploy bun."* 

We heard all this from the entrance, 
where we stood wiping our faces after the 
hot walk. George again rang his bell, and 
we entered. Jean Rantzau made a low 
bow ; his eyes were full of tears. Louise 
was crying also. We remained thus a mo- 
ment, in silence, to compose ourselves. 
Monsieur Jean pointed to the back door, 
and whispered, "He is in there." Mon- 
sieur le Cure* uncovered the holy Viaticum : 
then I and George followed him. The 
others fell in behind, all excepting the 
stricken old woman. 

From Franr'f Hsfaaine. 


Wren, in 1783, the treaty was signed 
by which Great Britain recognized the in- 
dependence of her revolted American 
monies, and the United States were ad- 
isuted into the family of nations, the 
Confederacy owned no public lands what- 
ever. It is true that lying within its 
borders was a large tract of unoccupied 
territory, amounting, in the aggregate, to 
iboat two hundred and twenty-six millions 
of acres; but this land belonged to the 
individual States, not to the Federal Gov- 

The English charters hod given to 
several of the colonies the coast of the 
Atlantic as their eastern boahdary, and 
had defined, though very locsely, their 
northern And southern limits; westward, 
however, their territorial rights stretched 
across the whole breadth of the continent 
to the shores of the Pacific — a trifling 
distance of some two thousand miles. 

The French possessions, on the other 
hand, extended from the St. Lawrence to 
the Gulf of Mexico ; their eastern bound- 
ary was not very clearly defined, but the 
j line drawn not only ignored the claims of 
the English colonists to the western terri- 
tory, but even infringed upon t,he limits of 
some of the colonies themselves. 

In support of their pretensions, the 
French erected forts and block-houses, at 
intervals, from the Great Lakes, through 
the western part of Pennsylvania, to the 
Ohio ; then along the banks of that stream 
to its junction with the Mississiopi ; whence 
their chain of military posts followed the 
course of the latter river to its mouth. 
France, indeed, displayed an amount of 
energy and perseverance in her efforts to 
establish her colonial empire in America 
upon a secure and permanent basis, which 
contrasts rather curiously with the supine- 
ness and indifference manifested at- one 
time by Great Britain with regard to the 
security and defence of her American pos- 
sessions ; she having left the people of the 
colonies for a considerable period to pro- 
tect themselves as they best might against 
the encroachments of their formidable 
rivals. At a later day, however, it must 
be admitted that England un 
willingness to draw the sword on behalf 
of her American subjects. 

To return. The English colonists found 
themselves, by these proceedings of the 
Freneh, hemmed in, and, in defiance of 
what thev considered to be their rights,' 
prevented all expansion westward. A 
conflict between the two races was, under 
these circumstances, sooner or later inev- 
itable. A collision, in fact, took place, so 
early as 1753, on the banks of the Ohio, 
between some English settlers and the 
garrison of one of the forts already re- 
ferred to. Both parties to the quarrel 
hastened to lay the story of their injuries 
at the feet of their respective sovereigns. 
The consequence was a long and sanguin- 
ary war between England and France, in 
which half Europe became involved, and 
which extended to even the most distant 
parts of the globe: so that, to quote 
Macanlay's words, "In the quarrel of 
potentates, of whose very existence they 



were ignoratft, black men fought on the 
coast of Coromandel, and red men scalped 
each other in the wilds, of America." 

In the New World, Braddock's defeat 
temporarily delayed, but could not* avert, 
thennal catastrophe. The French, indeed, 
fought out the quarrel with a valour and a 
constancy which extorted the praises of 
even their enemies; but the superior 
numbers and indomitable resolution of 
the Saxon in the end prevailed ; Canada 
was conquered ; and the forts on the Ohio 
were necessarily abandoned. France, it U 
true, still retained Louisiana, which com- 
prehended — not simply the present area 
of the State bearing that name — * but a 
vast tract of territory, extending from the 
Gulf to the forty-ninth parallel of north 
latitude ; and from the Mississippi, on the 
east,. to the Mexican frontier on the west. 
But, by the time the people of the English 
colonies had become a nation, the French 
power in America had been so thoroughly 
broken, that no further opposition to the 
expansion of the Confederacy was to be 
apprehended from it. 

The conflicting claims of the various 
States to the western territory — derived, 
as already stated* from their old colonial 
charters — threatened, indeed, to lead to 
serious legal difficulties, if not to an actual 
collision, between the inhabitants of some 
sections of the Confederacy : for the bound- 
aries of several of the colonies had been 
so carelessly defined, that they actually in 
some places overlapped each other; and 
the difficulty was of such a nature as, 
apparently, to offer almost insuperable 
obstacles to a solution which should be 
equally satisfactory to all parties. The 
question was, nevertheless, amicably 
settled ; and in a manner highly creditable 
to the good sense of the inhabitants of 
the several States interested.- Instead of 
wrangling with each other as to the justice 
of their respective claims to the unsettled 
territory, they all. without exception, in 
the course of a few years, embraced a 
proposition • which had been made by, I 
believe, Alexander Hamilton, that they 
should cede their rights in the lands lying 
beyond their borders to the Federal Gov- 
ernment. New York took the initiative 
in the matter; Virginia imitated her ex- 
ample in 1784 ; she was followed by Mas- 
sachusetts and Connecticut; and, subse- 
quently, by the two Carolinasand Georgia. 
It has been found impossible to ascer- 
tain, with anything like accuracy, the 
boundaries of the respective cessions of 
territory of the above States; but they 
may be 'said, in general terms, to have in- 

cluded the entire area now occupied by 
Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, Michigan, and Wis- 
consin. These various gift* plaocd the 
Confederacy in , possession of over two 
hundred million acres of fand. - 

In 1803, Louisiana was purchased from 
France ; and this acquisition, alone, added 
no less than one million square miles of 
territory to the Union. In 1819 Florida 
was ceded by Spain to the United States, 
and in 1816 Texas was annexed: the 
hitter State, however, retained the title to 
the unoccupied lanas within her limits. 
In 1818 and 1853, California, New Mexico, 
Nevada and Montana were acquired, 
partly by conquest, and partly by pur- 
chase ; and fo recently as 1837 the United 
States obtained one more accessiou of 
territory by buying Alaska of Russia. 
The total aggregate of lands, therefore, 
acquired by the Federal Government, 
since the revolution, may be roundly stated 
at 1,831,000,000 acres. 

When the United States first became 
possessed of large tracts of unoccupied 
territory, it was hoped, and believed by 
American statesmen, that the sale of the 
public lands would prove such an ample 
source of revenue to the country, that tax- 
ation would be materially lessened through- 
out the Union. In this, however, they 
were in error ; the expected rush of emi- 
gration from Europe did not take place, 
and the territory lyiug beyond the borders 
of the thirteen original States was, in the 
early days of the republic, only gradually 

The fact is, it is a fallacy to suppose 
that labour is all that is requisite to make 
wild lands productive : capital is quite as 
essential; an£ capital, necessarily, flows 
but slowly into a new country, where there 
is little security for life or property. The 
sales of the public lands, consequently, for 
the first decade of the republic/ only 
amounted to about one hundred thousand ■ 
dollars a year. At the end of the second. 
they brought in some seven hundred thou- 
sand dollars per annum. But it was not 
until 1819 J-hat the .public territory really 
became an appreciable source of revenue 
to the country. At that time the sales 
produced three millions of dollars a year, 
and continued to increase until, in 1830, 
they rose so high as twenty-one millions. 
Since that period, however, from causes to 
be hereafter referred to, the sales have 
steadily declined, and they now only aver- 
age some four millions of dollars annually. 

Not only were the founders of the Con- 
federacy disappointed in their expectations 
of deriving a large revenue from thepublio 



lands; bat they little dreamt that one 
portion of tbem (the Louisiana purchase) 
was destined to become the source of 
those bitter dissensions between the North 
sod South which, culminating in the late 
aril war, threatened, at one time, the dis- 
ruption of the republic. For it was on the 
question whether, or not, the inhabitants 
of the Southern States should be allowed 
to carry their slaves with them into the 
"Territories," and still retain their rights 
of ownership in their human chattels, that 
the first serious divergence of sentiment 
oo toe subject of slavery arose between 
the two sections of the United States. 
What Mr. Wendell Phillips used to speak 
of as the M inevitable " conflict was, indeed, 
iterted for a time, but only for a time, by 
the Missouri Compromise Act of 1820; 
and the repeal of that measure, in 1854, 
limply precipitated a collision which, from 
the growing exasperation of feeling on 
both sides, was certain, sooner or later, to 
have occurred. 

All danger, however, of the national ter- 
ritory ever again being a source of discord 
between the North and South having now 
been, it is to be hoped, set at rest for ever, 
tbepoblic lands — wrested from Slavery 
at a fearful expenditure of blood and treas- 
ure — will, there can be no doubt, prove 
of almost incalculable advantage to the 
people of the Union. What disposition 
bts been made by the United States of 
this magnificent inheritance in the past, 
and how it is proposed to deal with it in 
the future, I shall now proceed to show. 

Up to the present time, about four hun- 
dred and forty million acres of the national 
territory have passed out of the possession 
ef the Federal Government in various 
ways. Of these lands over seventy-five 
nillion acres have been bestowed upon 
schools and colleges. Sixty millions have 
been granted to revolutionary veterans, or 
their immediate descendants ; and to the 
soldiers who fought in the wars of 1812 
and 1847, and in the various wars with the 
Indians. Twenty-two million acres have 
been appropriated for the purpose of build- 
ing railways ; while thirteen millions have 
been reserved for the Indian tribes. The 
rettdoe has either been sold, or acquired 
by settlers under the '• Pre-emption " and 
"Homestead'* Acts. 

There are no less than five different 
vaya of acquiring a title to Government 
lands— 1st, by buying them at public 
auction. 2nd, by private purchase at the 
Land Office. 3rd, by virtue of a land war- 
rant, granted for military service. 4th, 


by pre-emption. 5th, under the " Home- 
stead " law. 

From time to time, large quantities of 
land are offered at public sale, in con- 
formity with a proclamation of the Presi- 
dent of the United States, or with a notice 
to that effect issued by the Land Office. 
The reserved price of the Government is 
one dollar and a quarter an acre; but in 
certain localities, and, especially, in the 
vicinity of railways, land is worth much 
more ; hence the periodical auctions. Any 
of the lots, however, offered at public sale, 
if not then disposed of, can be purchased, 
subsequently, at the minimun Government 
rate, at the Land Office. Indeed, at all 
times any quantity of land can be obtained 
at $1 25c. per acre, the purchaser being 
privileged to select any plot of ground 
which has not already been appropriated, 
or is not reserved for sale at auction. As, 
at the present time, there are no less than 
seventy million acres of the national terri- 
tory — surveyed and ready for immediate 
occupation — in the- various Western 
States, lying between the thirty-second 
and forty-eighth parallels of north latitude, 
intending^ settlers have the choice of a 
wide variety of soil and climate. And, 
each year, the Government orders fresh 
surveys of the wild lands to be made, so 
as to keep the supply well in advance of 
the demand. 

The national territory has been surveyed 
and laid out in what are termed Townships ; 
each township being six miles square, and 
containing thirty-six lot3, or sections as 
they are commonly called, of six hundred 
and forty acres each. To every soldier 
who fought in any of the wars, except the 
last, a quarter section, or one hundred and 
sixty acres of land, has been granted ; and, 
as has been already stated, no less than 
sixty million acres have thus been appro- 
priated by the Federal Government. 

The grant of seventy-five million acres 
of land to schools and colleges appears 
enormous, and almost incredible; but it 
is, nevertheless, a fact. The way in winch 
it has been done is this: In the earliest 
•• Ordinance for ascertaining the best mode 
of disposing of lands in the Western Terri- 
tory,*' it was enacted that Lot 10 of every 
Township should be " reserved/' for ever, 
for the maintenance and support of the 
public schools within the limits of said 
Township. A subsequent Act appro- 
priated Lot 86, also, for the same purpose. 
Thus, in every Township which has been, 
or shall be incorporated in the West, two 
sections, or 1,280 acres of land, are set 
apart for the purposes of education; so 



that to all children in the community, 
whether their parents be citizens or not, 
gratuitous instruction is offered by the 
State, without the necessity of imposing 
any tax whatever for this purpose. 

The system of making grants of land to 
railway companies, for the purpose of 
enabling them to construct lines through 
thinly settled districts although it has in 
many instances led to jobbery and corrup- 
tion, has yet on the whole been of great ad- 
vantage to the country. For by this 
means railways have been built which 
otherwise could not have been constructed 
for many years to come. Indeed, it was 
thus that the Pacific Railroad — the rao3t 
stupendous undertaking of its kind on 
the American continent — was carried 
through successfully. 

The plan adopted is simple enough : the 
Government " donates/' to U3e an American 
idiom, every alternate section of land 
through which a projected line of railway 
is to run, to the company, and recoups itself 
by selling the intermediate sections at 
double the usual price, i.e. $2 50c. instead 
of $1 25c. per acre. This it has no diffi- 
culty in doing, the advantage of possessing 
access to a market by means of the line 
more than doubling the value of land in 
its vicinity. The railway company, on the 
other hand, not only has nothing to pay 
for the " right of way," but is also able to 
dispose of its surplus lands at a handsome 
price. In this way the inhabitants of the 
particular State or States through which 
the line of railway runs are benefited, while 
the Government Buffers no loss. 

By the Pre-emption Law (the operation 
of which has, however, been to a certain 
extent superseded by the Homestead Act) 
any settler, or "squatter," on unoccupied 
land, belonging to the United States, en- 
joys the privilege of buying it at the min- 
imum Government price whenever it shall 
be offered for sale, or, if unable or uu willing 
to do this, of obliging whoever else shall 
purchase it to pay him for the various im- 
provements ho has effected; and as the 
value of these improvements is, in all 
cases, to be assessed by a jury —consist- 
ing usually of the immediate friends and 
neighbours of the settler — he is quite 
safe to receive fair compensation for the 
buildings he has erected and the labour 
he has bestowed upon the land. 

This just and considerate measure was 
passed many years ago, to remedy what 
was felt to be the cruel injustice to which 
settlers in the Western Territories were 
subjected from the existing law, which 
treated the unfortunate squatter as a mere 

trespasser, without a particle of property 
in the land he had redeemed from the 

In this way, a man who had settled 
upon a plot of ground, and with the la- 
bour of years brought it under cultiva- 
tion, might be surprised any day by the 
appearance of a stranger who would show 
him a deed of purchase from the Federal 
Government covering the land in question, 
and at the same time serve him with a 
notice of ejectment. The squatter could 
not be brought to see the justice of a law 
by which the wild land he had reclaimed, 
and the rude log cabin his own hands bad 
erected — which had been his home for 
years and in which his children had been 
born — should be wrested from him at the 
bidding of a distant government, and 
another man enjoy the fruits of his labours. 
The conseauence was that the vexata quces- 
tio as to the ownership of the land was, 
not- un frequently, settled by the squatter 
putting a rifle bullet through the head of 
the new claimant ; and, such was the state 
of public sentiment in the community of 
which the offender was a member, that it 
was almost impossible to find a jury to 
convict him of murder for so doing. In- 
deed, throughout the West a feeling of 
bitter animosity against the Government 
was growing up, which threatened to re- 
sult in a chronic state of agrarian outrage 
and resistance to the law, such as still ex- 
ists, or lately existed, in some parts of 
Ireland. Fortunately, however, Congress 
was wise in time; the Pre-emption Act 
was passed in 1810, and the angry feelings 
engendered by a rankling sense of injus- 
tice gradually died out. so that at the 
present day the United States has no citi- 
zens more loyal than the settlers in the 
Far West. 

The Homestead Law was enacted in 
1862 \ under it, every native born or nat- 
uralized citizen is entitled to a farm of 
160 acres wit/iout ant/ payment whatever, the 
sole condition attached to the gift being 
that the claimant shall reside upon the 
land for the term. of five years, at the ex- 
piration of which period the farm becomes 
his absolute property. Furthermore, in 
order that a man may be afforded an op- 
portunity of making a fresh start in life, 
untrammelled by previous pecuniary em- 
barrassments, one section of the Act pro- 
vides that u No lands thus acquired shall 
in any event become liable to the satisfac- 
tion of any debt contracted prior to the 
issuing of the patent therefor/' 

But the settler is allowed only one * 
chance of obtaining a *' homestead ; " if he 



tell or abandon his claim before the five 
years have expired, he never obtains 
another. The Bale, in fact, of a •* home- 
stead right," as it is termed, not only con- 
veys do title to the purchaser, but is re- 
garded by the Government as prima facie 
evidence of abandonment, and the original 
claim is cancelled. 

So rapid, nevertheless, is the increase in 
the value of the public lands when once 
settled upon, that a very considerable pro- 
portion of all those who take, up their 
quarter section under the Homestead Act, 
iostead of waiting the five years for a free 
deed, prefer, before the expiration of the 
lerm, to pay the Government price of 91 
2jc*per acre, and thus perfect their title 
at once. And they do this in order not to 
loee an opportunity of effecting an advan- 
tageous sale should one present itself. 
Of course, having bought the- land, the 
clauses of the Act rendering the sale of a 
~ homestead right" null and void cease to 
be operative, and the seller conveys a per- 
fectly good title to the purchaser. 

Indefeasibility of title, and the ease with 
which the conveyance of real estate is 
effected, are, indeed, not among the least 
of the advantages of the land system of 
the United States. In most of the new 
States the titles to all lands lying within 
their limits are derived primarily from the 
Federal Government, the only exceptions 
to the rule being those instances in which 
grants had been made by other Govern- 
ments to their citizens of lands in prov- 
inces subsequently ceded to the United 
States. When acquiring territory in this 
manner, a stipulation has, of course, al- 
ways been inserted in the treaties that 
private property should be respected ; and, 
m this way, American jurists have been 
called upon to decide on the titles to 
grants of lands in California, made by 
Spain or Mexico, which, originally worth 
bat little, became, after the discovery of 
gold in that State, and the consequent 
rash of emigration to it, of enormous 
value. In Louisiana, also, similar difficul- 
ties have occasionally arisen as regards the 
construction of the early French patents. 
Bat, on the whole, there has been very 
little litigation, the Government of the 
United States having generally, when 
there was anything like a fair show of 
right on the part of a claimant, confirmed 
am in possession of the property, the title 
to which he professed to have derived 
from patents issued by the former owners 
of the soil. 

It was with a knowledge of these facts 
that, several years ago, a very daring at- 

tempt was made to perpetrate a serious 
fraud upon the Federal Government, and 
its tragic termination created considerable 
sensation in Washington at the time. 

A Dr. Graham applied at the Land 
Office for a deed recognizing him as the 
owner of a large tract of land in Califor- 
nia, which he represented himself to have 
purchased of the heir3 of the individual to 
whom it had originally been granted by 
the Mexican Government. It support of 
his claim, the Doctor produced various 
documents in the Spanish language. One 
of them purported to be the patent by 
which the grant had in the first instance 
been made ; in others, the several persons 
in whom the title to the lands had subse- 
quently been vested were enumerated; 
and the contract for the sale of the estate 
to him was, to all appearance, equally 
without a flaw. Everything, in fact, 
seemed so perfectly en regie, that Dr. Gra- 
ham obtained his deed with very little, 

The Doctor was a man of fine presence, 
highly accomplished, and of most gentle- 
manlike manners. These advantages, 
combined with the presumed fact of his 
being a millionaire, obtained for him the . 
entree to the best circles of the capital 
After a time, however, reports begun to 
be spread abroad that no such persons as 
thoso from whom he stated he had bought 
the property had ever had an existence, 
and that, in fact, the whole claim was 
fraudulent. These rumours acquiring con- 
sistency, the Government ordered the ar- 
rest of Dr. Graham, and he was brought to 
trial for forgery. The rc3ult was a con- 
viction. On the verdict being pronounced, 
the prisoner poured into a glas3 of water 
which stood near him a few drops of a col- 
ourless fluid, drauk it off, and immediately, 
to the surprise and dismay of the specta- 
tors, fell to the ground — a corpse . 

When once a patent has been issued for 
a grant of land, the title to the property 
on the part of the grantee becomes abso- 
lutely unchallengeable, except in the con- 
tingency of his having, as in the above, 
cited intance, obtained the deed by fraud. 
If, indeed, as has sometimes happened, the' 
United States sells unoccupied land to 
which it has no legal claim, it is under the. 
necessity of indemnifying the rightful 
owner; but no defect in the title on the 
part of the Government affects the pur- 
chaser; he is secured against all possi- 
bility of loss. 

As, after land has passed out of the 
hands of the Government, the registration 
of all subsequent transfers of it is en- 



forced by law, there is not at any time the 
•lightest difficulty in ascertaining at the 
Record Office in whom the title to a piece 
of real estate was last rested. In fact, 
what Lord St. Leonards' Registration of 
Lands Titles Bill would have done for 
England had it been compulsory, instead 
of permissive, the laws of, I believe, with- 
out exception, every State in the Union 
have effected for its Citizens. Thus it 
very rarely happens that disputed titles to 
land occupy the attention of either the 
Federal or State courts. 

The facilities, again, in all the States for 
the conveyance of real property are such 
that the title to an estate of ten thousand 
acres may be embraced within the coin- 
pass of a single page of foolscap ; while 
too expense of drawing up and registering 
the deed need not exceed five dollars. In 
this way, land in the United States is 
dealt in, and passes from one person to 
another, with almost the same readiness 
that the most ordinary commodities of 
commerce do here. 

Tho result, indeed, of the land policy of 
the American people is shown in the fact 
that not only does nearly every farmer 
own the land he tills, but that there are, at 
the present time, in the Uuited States, 
over six million freeholders, out of a popu- 
lation of about forty millions. 

The contrast between the state of 
things above described and that which 
exists in this country is curious enough. 
Here, every generation witnesses the ag- 
gregation of the bulk of the landed prop- 
erty in fewer and fewer hand*. In 
America each year, it has been computed, 
adds over sixty thousand freeholders to 
the community. 

It is true that the accuracy of the re- 
turn of the number of landowners in Eng- 
land in the la3t published census has been 
questioned on very high authority, and it 
doubtless much exceeds 30,776, the figures 
therein given ; but the fact is beyond ques- 
tion that the owners of agricultural laud 
in this country are rapidly becoming fewer 
and fewer. Of individuals owning a house 
and the half rood or so of ground it 
stands upon, (here are, probably — owin<* 
to the operations of building societies and 
other causes — considerably more now than 
there were thirty or forty years ago. The 
land thus held, however, forms but a very 
am all proportion of the whole, and it may 
be confidently asserted that at least eight- 
tenths of the landud property in Great 
Britain is in the possession of less than ten 
thousand persons; indeed, as it is a well- 
known fact that three noblemen own be- 

tween them one-quarter of all Scotland, the 
estimate given above of tho number of 
proprietors is, probably, rather over thafi 
under the mark. 

In this country, in fact, not only the law 
of primogeniture, but the whole scope of 
modern legislation has had a tendency to 
divorce the great mass of the people from 
the land. In the United States, on the 
other hand, every effort has been made by 
the State to create and foster a mnltitude 
of small freeholders. 

Of course no comparison in this respect 
can fairly be instituted between a country 
like America, possessing practically almost 
inexhaustible supplies of land, and one 
with so small an area as England, without 
a fair allowance being made for the differ- 
ent conditions of political and social ex- 
istence imposed upon the latter by her cir- 
cumscribed limits. Still, the contrast be- 
tween the policy deliberately adopted 
by each of the two nations with regard to 
the soil is none the less marked. Aa to 
which is the better of the two systems for 
the great mass of the people, some evi- 
dence is afforded in the growing discon- 
tent in this country with the existing state 
of the law as regards real property — a 
discontent which, though it may possibly 
be stifled for a time, will ultimately, there 
can be but little doubt; insist on making it- 
self heard. w. o. M. 

From The Spectator. 

What manner of men are they, really 
and truly, those bronze-skinned aboriginal 
dwellers in our great New Zcalandcolony 7 
Why are they so unlike, not only the na- 
tives of Australia, the huge neighbour of 
their island in the Southern Seas, but all 
other savages concerning whom we have 
reliable information, and like only to the 
grand red men of American romance, as 
poetical, but far more human than they? 
When the Maori, having proved them- 
selves impracticable subjects for the ex- 
tirpation policy which has been success- 
fully pursued elsewhere, were fighting us 
a few year3 ago, with bravery and obstina- 
cy which nobody could deny, we had very 
vague notions about them. They were to 
us " anthropophagi and men,' 1 who made 
themselves grotesquely terrible by tattoo- 
ing carried to a height of barbarous art 
not to be found elsewhere. Certain sam- 
ples of their industrial products which 
were exhibited in London displayed solid- 



hy and accuracy of workmanship and ca- 
rious elaborateness of decoration, sach as 
we habitually associate with the handi- 
work of the Chinese and the Japanese. 
We heard of national songs amongst them, 
leading people who cared about such mat- 
ters to hope that a sequence of traditions 
might be made oat, which should estab- 
lish another great difference between them 
and all the savages of the Southern world, 
by supplying a proximate history of their 
past We heard of the upspringing of a 
wild, passionate, religious enthusiasm, 
under the direction of a martial leader, 
which had a distant, dwarfed resemblance 
to the origin Of Mohammedanism. But, on 
the whole, they were u black fellows," and 
they had had no charming books written 
about them, except Dr. Hocbstetter s, 
which was originally published at Arkan- 
sas, in the German language, and after- 
Yards, in the English version, at Stuttgart, 
so that the delightful accounts it gave of the 
sublime beauty of the interior of the island 
sod of the sunny salubrity of its climate, 
probably extended to few beyond those 
who resorted to its pases with a purpose. 
There were plenty of books and pam- 
phlets about tie settlers and the sheep ; but 
the writers generally confined themselves 
to assurances that the Maori never came 
m sight in their respective districts, or to 
eheerfal anticipations of their speedy re- 
daction to " harmlessness," a readily in- 
terpreted phrase in the mouths of a cer- 
tain class of colonists. There has been no 
gradoal preparation of the public mind 
for such a revelation of the Maori charac- 
ter as that made by the lately published 
tficial documents, and for the present at- 
titude of the Maori race, which is quite as 
sarprising as the great social revolution 
of Japan, and, except from the strictly 
commercial-exporting point of view, much 
more important to us, the elder brethren 
of these extraordinary people, towards 
whom they yearn with a most affecting 
eagerness. They fought us bravely, for 
as long as they could, and they are not 
ashamed of it, nor of their defeat. They 
do not mourn dumbly, like the Delawares, 
in stubborn .endurance of extinction; but 
fike men to whom a revelation has been 
made, which they have hearkened to with 
strong will and lofty intelligence, they 
have sprung " full statured in an hour " 
towards the civilisation which the conquer- 
or now holds out in the hand that has 
sheathed the sword. We have destroyed 
the old things, and they demand of us the 
sew. They ask for guidance, instruction, 
•11 the material of civilization, with an as- 

tonishing perception of its moral meaning 
and results. They take so lofty a view 
of the new bonds between them and Eng- 
land, that they unconsciously present a 
model of government such as old nations 
are striving after with various fortune; 
they realise the unseen, they seize upon 
the abstract ideas of sovereignty, of the 
complicated bonds of a great political and 
social community, and they pour out their 
feelings to the men who are to them the 
embodiment of these ideas, in language 
full of grave, dignified pathos. Long years 
of homage in innumerable varieties of 
idiom have not brought to the Queen of 
England any words more simply beauti- 
ful than those in which she is referred to 
in a letter written 23rd July, 1872, by one 
of " her Maori children " to Dr. Feather- 
ston, Agent-General for New Zealand, to 
whose personal influence with the tribes, 
during his residence in the island for 
thirty years, much of the present peace, 
prosperity, and extraordinary progress of 
the Maori is due. He had, during eigh- 
teen years' continuous tenure of office as 
Superintendent, constant official commu- 
nication with the tribes of the Wellington 
province, and from 1801 to 1865 main- 
tained peace in this portion of the colony. 
It has a strange effect to come in a dry 
official record on such a passage as this, 
addressed by one of the former principal 
promoters of the Maori-King movement 
to his "father and friend," now, as his 
"loving son "has it, " appointed by our 
Queen to bear the burdens of this island 
into her presence " : — 

•• Sire, salutations! I send greeting to the 
greatest of our benefactors, to one whose love has 
been felt by those who are dead aad gone, as well 
as by the living! O Sire, salutations! Your letter 
has been received, and both I and my tribe have 
seen it. . Qreat is my satisfaction that you 
should still remember us, residing, as you now 
are, in the midst of the great world, and near 
the fountain of life ! " 

The celebrated chief Wi Tako contrib- 
utes a letter to this remarkable corre- 
spondence, which puts the native character 
in an unexpected light. Wi Tako with- 
drew himself in 1862 from all communica- 
tion with Europeans, fortified his pah, 
raised the rebel flag, moved from place to 
place attended by a bodyguard of 100 
men, and on being invited to meet Sir 
George Grey at Otako, refused to receive 
the Governor except in his own pah, end 
under the " Kings " flag. But he ulti- 
mately yielded to Dr. Featherston's per- 
sonal influence, met the Governor on neu- 
tral ground, took the oath of allegiance, 



and became a valuable ally. His letter, 
which may be taken as widely if not com- 
pletely representative, shows perfect be- 
lief in the wisdom, and reliance on some- 
thing more than the good faith, — on the 
kind, just, brotherly feeling of the English 
Government. This man and his fellows 
have entered upon their new allegiance 
with a chivalrous loyalty that finds highly 
poetic utterance, and has an underlying 
note of steadfast patience, entirely acqui- 
escent in the honest working of an un- 
known, uncomprehended machinery, which 
is perhaps the most utter contradiction of 
all to our notions of even the noblest sav- 
age. The eager whole-souled ness of their 
aspiration to the civilization of their con- 
queror is combined with an entire reason- 
ableness quite as curious as an attribute 
of the state of childhood, whether national 
or individual. "The fidelity of your na- 
tive tribes to their absent chief has not 
diminished. We are greatly rejoiced be- 
cause your plans are clear and compre- 
hensive. I have told you that the island 
is at peace. This is the result of the good 
policy of the Government. They are se- 
curing the confidence of the people/' 
Then follows a clear abstract of certain 
tribal conferences, and reference to the 
matters to be brought before the English 
Parliament by "the loving father/' who is 
u yonder, seeking out the advantage of 
this country.'* 

There is quite an Ossianic loftiness 
about many of the speeches made by the 
Maori chiefs to Sir George Bowen, -Gov- 
ernor of New Zealand, during his " pro- 
gress " last April, when he travelled over- 
land through the central, once hostile, dis- 
tricts, lately inaccessible to Europeans, 
from Wellington to Auckland, and visited 
both ahores of the great Lake Taupo, the 
geographical and strategical course of the 
islaod, from whence to the chief towns of all 
the provinces the mail-coach roads are be- 
ing rapidly completed. A universal chorus 
of welcome greeted the Governor, welcome 
in which there is not a touch of servility, 
couched in language which must have had 
a- strange effect upon the Master of Blan- 
tyre, who was of the Governor's party. It 
is such as might have been spoken by the 
Highland chieftains, children of the Mist,' 
when the clans were gathered to declare 
for the unseen, unknown object of their 
imaginative romantic loyalty, full of the 
poetic fervour of one feeling common to 
all, yet strangely distinct, and true to the 
spirit of clanship. The " tangi " or la- 
ment for an aged chief, at which they as- 
sisted, is just like a Highland "coronach," 

lofty, eloquent, full of poetry, and without 
the slightest touch of the grotesque. Of 
what other " savage " death ceremony 
could that be said V Few more romantic or 
wonderful spectacles have been witnessed 
than the korero, or conference, at Tokano, 
the native settlement at the south end of 
the lake, which was held by the Govern- 
or and the great chiefs. The lake, 
as large as that of Geneva, glittered 
in the sunshine, surrounded with a 
noble chain of mountains, with the snow- 
clad ridge of Ruapehu (9,200 feet high) 
towering above them, and the great vol- 
cano Tongariro (6,200 feet high) sending 
its clouds of steam and smoke up into the 
deep blue sky. 

With countless flags flying — there was 
great competition for Union Jacks — and 
soft-swelling songs of welcome, came the 
tribes and their chiefs to greet the Gov- 
ernor, to tell him how eagerly they longed 
for u English education," for the '• English 
tongue/' for the faces and voices of their 
white brethren, for the roads, and the 
lawn, and the knowledge of other lands 
and other people which he could send 
them. Among the number of striking 
phrases, these may be taken at random 
from many speakers : — 

" Come, O Governor! and see us. Tou are 
the father of the people. We have been swim- 
ming in tho ocean, and know not where to go. 
We feel that we are now touching the shore, and 
you have come to help and guide us to land. 
We have long been searching for a proper course 
to take. We are now beginning to think we 
have found the right way. We will listen to 
you, in hope that our troubles may now end. 
All the followers of the King will hear what you 
say to-drty. Welcome, my father. There is no 
knowledge in Hauraki; come and see it Gome 
hither from the place where you have been lay- 
ing down life-giving principles of action. Come 
and see the death of Taraia, and the peoplo who 
last saw him. His soul has gone, taken hence 
by the strong hand of death. Himself selected 
the day of his departure. Had he been bound 
with ohaina, it had not been possible to detain 
him. Though his spirit has fled, his voice still 
lives, and he bids you all welcome." 

All this is blended with keen practical sug- 
gestions, shrewd comments on the Gov- 
ernor's admirable speeches, and explicit 
declarations that they expect the land 
question to be speedily dealt with (hap- 
pily the Maori know nothing of the his- 
torical precedent furnished by Ireland, — 
if they did, their confidence might be 
shaken^ ; also very plain intimations that 
the collective loyalty of the tribes is not 
'to lessen their respective independence. 



! . 

"Let chiefs of other tribes," says Foihipi 
Horomatangi, " be responsible for the 
good conduct of their own people; they 
most not interfere with us." Paora Rau- 
hihi observes tersely : — " We have long 
been wishing to see you. / never saw a 
Governor before. Welcome." And one fine 
old chief^ Tahira, made a little speech, 
which for sense and a lingering pathetic 
regret is matchless : — 

"Welcome/' said he. "All I can do is to 
greet you. I cannot make myself one with yoa 
ao thoroughly as my friends around you have, 
because our thoughts are not yet the same; but 
Then I find that I can dwell quietly and without 
being disturbed in my own place, then perhaps 
I shall see my way clear to do as others have 
done. It were better that the position of the 
bad were made clear. My hands are quite 
eku. I do not know your thoughts. Unite 
yourselves with us to-day, because it has been 
through you that this place is what it is." 

Every line of the Report is worth reading 
and full of suggestion. So these are the 
Maori, the brown men of the fairest of is- 
lands, with the finest climate in the world, 
who offer an absolute contradiction to the 
conviction usually produced by making 
acquaintance with savage lands, that the 
natives are blots on the beauty and 
grandeur of the scene. To read the official 
reports concerning the Maori of the pres- 
ent, and Dr. Hochstetter's description of 
(heir country, is to have a wide field 
opened up for speculation upon the future 
of the race, under its double aspect of ro- 
mance and reality. 

A sad and striking contrast presents it- 
self at the other side of that wide strip 
of silver sea which divides the Maori from 
the Aborigines of the Australian conti- 
nent The Eighth Report of the Board 
for the Protection of the Aborigines in the 
colony of Victoria is a record of well sus- 
tained, praiseworthy efforts on the part 
of the gentlemen who have undertaken so 
humane a task, with satisfactory results as 
regards the number and condition of the 
protected persons. But every characteris- 
tic which the official records bring out into 
view iu the Maori is wanting in the Vic- 
torian aborigines. These people seem to 
he hopelessly vagrant by nature, and la- 
mentably unable to resist drink. These 
are the great obstacles, the deadly ene- 
mies the Board have to contend with, and 
considering their strength, and the diffi- 
culty of making the recipients of such 
beneficence appreciate its motive or its 
advantage, it is satisfactory to record that 
the number of aborigines now settled on 
the stationo under the control of the 1 

Board is 567, of whom 327 are males and 
240 females. The Board declares that the 
number of deaths reported (the total 
number of aborigines in Victoria is 1,638) 
does not support the conclusion that the 
aborigines are decreasing at the rate that 
several estimates would seem to show. It 
is plain that their task is a hard and a 
dispiriting one, and the encouragement of 
freely-expressed public approbation ought 
to be given to the Board, whose object is, 
to use the words of their own Report, " to 
rescue the people from misery and degra- 
dation, and if they cannot make them use- 
ful citizens, to prevent them at least from 
remaining a burden on the State." 

From The SpeoUtor. 

It is curious to see modern science, un- 
der the guidance of Mr. Darwin's great in- 
tellectual impulse, so far returning upon its 
tracks as to find a new store of humour in 
those grotesque recasts and reconstruc- 
tions of animal forms which amused the old 
Greeks and Egyptians with the conceptions 
of centaurs, chimssras, bird-headed men, 
and so forth. Here are two humorous 
books, both of which have evidently been 
suggested by Mr. Darwin's conception that 
the divergence of different directions of 
animal development depends upon mere 
incidents of climate, food, the characteris- 
tics of competing races of animals, and so 
forth, all of which incidents differ in every 
different locality, and that, therefore, the 
real combinations of animal forms might 
have been very different from what they 
are. The drawing* of " Grotesque Ani- 
mals," by W. E. D. Cooke, R. A., F.Z.S., &c 
(Longmans), are efforts of fancy in exhaust- 
ing the permutations and combinations of 
animal forms supposed to bo most incom- 
patible with each other, and are full of the 
humorous extravagance of startliug and 
monstrous amalgamations. The other 
book, by Mr. Charles Bennett and Mr. 
Brough (Ward, Lock, and Tyler), is a very 
clever attempt to show by what insensible 
gradations you can make almost any kind 
of animal shade off into man, — so that 
you can hardly catch the graduations by 
which you pass from the prize ox in the 
stall to the ox-headed grazier who is look- 
ing at him, or by which you pass from the 
dull and greedy vulture to. the dull and 
greedy man of prey who fattens on the 
garbage of human society. Mr. Cooke's 
book is really a work of art as well as a 



work of humour, so gracefully as well as 
bo oddly are the animal forms combined 
into the most night-marish of new species. 
It is impossible to describe grotesque 
effects which appeal solely to the eye ; but 
nothing can exceed the oddity of the con- 
ception hi the very first plate in the book, 
for instance, where the head of a cockatoo 
with gay ruffled feathers is issuing from 
a spiral (Ammonite) shell, and the com- 
pound creature is supported by a single 
stout human leg and foot, while a lamb- 
headed servant, with a conical (Turitella) 
shell for a fool's cap, also a monoped, fol- 
lows the haughty cockatoo-headed fop at 
a respectful distance. These oddities of 
conception must be seen to be enjoyed. 
But the grotesque humour of both books 
is evidently due to the new impulse which 
Mr. Darwin has given to the conviction of 
a physical relationship between all forms 
of animal life, human and otherwise, and 
the infpression he has given us that com- 
binations of organs which are arbitrary 
and impossible under existing conditions 
might have been possible under conditions 
not very widely varied. What were exer- 
ciseb of the merest arbitrary fancy to the 
nations of the ancient world, have gained 
for us a sort of remote significance from 
the knowledge how very slight a change 
of conditions might have changed the direc- 
tion of development, so that what was gro- 
tesque by virtue of its arbitrariness to the 
ancient world, is still more grotesque to us 
because part of that arbitrariness has dis- 
appeared. As cousins are apt to feel the 
grotesqueness of the moral contrasts be- 
tween them far more than strangers, for 
the very reason that they are not bo far 
off as they might seem, so the new sense 
of affinity between the various animal 
types and forms and organs adds a certain 
keenness of flavour to the* grotesqueness 
of the contrasts they present. 

For the word "grotesque," — taken 
primarily, we suppose, from the twisted 
and distorted character of forms seen in 
the dim light of a grotto, — applies espe- 
cially to the twisted and distorted parodies 
on human functions and passions which we 
seem to see winding away from us into the 
deep gloom of the lower animal types. It 
was this feeling which gave its rare gro- 
tesqueness to the wisdom of Msop. The 
voluntary distortion of his moral wisdom 
when it was made to issne from the mouth 
of the frog, or the ass, or the fox, — the 
sense of the relation and also the dispropor- 
tion between the thought and cunning aud 
passions of men, aud the various undignified 
animals whose forms he peopled with these 

human qualities, — produced exactly that 
impression of twisted and dislocated forms 
which is implied in the word " grotesque." 
Hazlitt has put this very powerfully in com- 
menting in JEsop's humour, saying of him: 
— " Ape and slave, be looked askance at 
human nature, and beheld its weaknesses 
and errors transferred to another species. 
.... He saw in man a talking, absurd, ob- 
stinate, proud, angry animal, and clothed 
these abstractions with wings, a beak, or 
a tail, or claws, or long ears as they ap- 
peared embodied in these hieroglyphics in 
the brute creation. His moral philosophy 
is natural history. He makes an ass bray 
wisdom and a frog croak humanity/' If 
JEsop had lived in our day, he would have 
probably felt the moral grotesqueness of 
his fables to be far more instead of leas 
striking. The odd distortion which his 
fancy invented for the sake of effect, might 
have a certain tone of semi-reality now. 
Our cunning may really be related by 
something like immemorial descent to that 
of the fox, — our rapacity to that of the 
wolf, — our industry to that of the beaver 
or the bee. Animal passions are not so 
much the distorted forms of human pas- 
sions, as human passions are the partially 
straitened forms of animal passions, — 
straitened by conscience and reason and 
the possession of a divine soul. But this 
does not make the grotesqueness in the 
likeness less, but rather greater. What 
we see in the animal world, still bears to 
what we find in ourselves something of 
the same relation that a gurgoyle repre- 
senting a human head bears to the real 
image of a man ; and we feel the thrill and 
pathos which is involved in all the higher 
forms of the " grotesque '* only the more 
in gazing at the animal world, so far as we 
really believe that there is a common an- 
cestry for those strange instincts which we 
dimly trace winding away into the subter- 
ranean life of brute existence. Unques- 
tionably one reason why the grotesqueness 
of animal life is taking gradually so much 
more important a place in the modern 
world of literature than it had in the an- 
cient, is that in the ancient world it was 
connected simply with the sharp contrasts 
and analogies traced by keen intellectual 
wit, while in the modern world a feeling 
of sympathy between the lower and the 
higher form of life is growing up to shade 
off the intellectual contrasts. The gro- 
tesque suggestions of, <£hop's fables have 
no pathos in them. But the grotesque sug- 
gestions of the greatest of modern J2?ops 
— a much greater than JSiop, — Hans 
Christian Andersen, are full of pathos, and 



solely on this account, that his speaking 
animal have a real relationship to man, and 
feel as men feel, only with a more embar- 
rassed and limited and less articulate voice. 
The kinship between the lower animals 
and man is the greatest of all sources of 
the higher grotesque effects, — those effects 
in which the sense of ludicrous difference 
and distortion is modified by an under- 
current of feeling of real affinity. Ander- 
sen's "Ugly Duckling," his toads and 
atorks, and a hundred other of his crea- 
tions, have all the wisdom and wit of JSsop, 
and combine with it a tender feeling of 
animal infirmitv as akin to human infirm- 
fry, as well. 

And it is probably for some reason of 
the same general kind that modern litera- 
ture has devoted so much more attention 
to the pathetic side of what is most gro- 
tesque in man himself. Sir Walter Scott's 
grotesques, his Dominie Sampson, Davie 
Getlatly, Laird .of Dumbiedikes, and so 
forth, almost all have a touch of the kind 
of pathos in them which comes from a sym- 
pathy with animal inarticulateness, with 
that helplessness of nature that has never 
folly gained the faculty of speech or self- 
knowledge, and that takes us back to the 
lower races of creatures for illustrations 
of it It was, perhaps. Sir Walter's great 
sympathy with animala that gave him this 
wonderful power of sketching the interme- 
diate world between consciousness and un- 
consciousness in man. Even Shakespeare 
shows little sign of this kind of command 
of the grotesque. His fools and madmen, 
touching as they are, are not touching 
from their creatureliness, but from eclipsed 
or disfigured human* qualities. And his 
conceptions of Caliban and Ariel have none 
of that sort of pathos in .them. They are 
marvellous feats of creative fancy, but do 
not excite our pity. Even on the stage 
Ton see how much the taste for the higher 
tind of grotesque feeling has grown. Rob- 
aon'a greatest efforts used to be produced 
by delineating the struggle of dumb affec- 
tions to express themselves dimly without 
vords, in actions so grotesque that you 
knew not whether to laugh or to cry, but 
the pathos of which was at least as profound 
aa their humour. And the grotesque hu- 
mour of America is in a great degree of the 
tame kind, — especially in such poems as 
-little Breeches" and "The Prairie Bell," 
and such tales as Bret Harte's, — studies 
of rude natures helplessly struggling for a 
half-utterance. It would seem, too, that 
the great Russian author Turguenieff has 
produced studies of the grotesque of a 
pathos even higher, and precisely of the 

same type, — where the secret of the pathos 
lies in the deep sympathy of the writer 
with the dumb, unconscious, creaturely 
phases of animal or human feeling. In- 
deed, every writer we have named, from 
Scott to Turguenieff, hhs proved that his 
sympathy with the lower animals was as 
living as his sympathy with the dumb in- 
articulate feelings of men hardly yet set 
free from the dumbness of the lower ani- 
mals. Mr. Darwin's doctrine has not come 
before the way had been prepared for 'it 
by a quite new current of sympathy be- 
tween our race and the grotesque germs 
of human feeling in the races beneath our 

• From The Spectator. 

The subject of Mr. Jeaffreson's new 
work will make it popular with a larger 
class of people than could have been in- 
terested in his studies of doctors, lawyers, 
and clergymen 9 while the novel attractions 
of many of the materials he has collected 
will be recognized by most readers. Mar- 
riage, and the customs connected with it, 
afford a wide field for anecdote. We are 
taken back to early times in such a chapter 
as that on " Marriage by Capture ; " but 
almost every age presents some notable 
features. The Fleet marriages of one 
century, the Gretna Green marriages of 
another, the espousals and pre-contracts 
which once were of undisputed validity, 
the lay marriages and publicatiou of banns 
in the market-place that came in under the 
Commonwealth, are treated in turn by Mr. 
Jeaffreson, and furnish him with much 
curious matter. Then we have chapters 
on wedding-dresses, wedding-rings, wed- 
ding-cake, and last, not least, wedding- 
presents. Besides these matters, which 
are intimately, some might say painfully, 
associated with the marriage ceremony, 
Mr. Jeaffreson deals with the legal conse- 
quences of matrimony, even going on to 
discuss a subject which is hardly mentioned 
at weddings, and which he delicately calls 
dissolution of partnership. In one of Mr. 
Charles Reade's novels, indeed, we hear of 
an allusion to divorce while the Maire is 
proclaiming the indissolubility of the civil 
marriage which he has just performed, 
but the circumstances there are altogether 
exceptioual. Moreover, with regard to 

• Brides and BridmU. By John Cordjr Jeaffto 
•on. London: Huist and lil a okott. 1872. 



Mr. Jeaffreson 's statement of the laws 
affecting the property of married women, 
we have to observe that the provisions of 
the Act of 1870 have escaped his atten- 
tion. He says that " the law which renders 
a husband the possessor of his wife's 
property is at present productive of griev- 
ous injustice in every class of the commu- 
nity. It gives the profligate husband the 
power to squander on his vicious enjoy- 
ments the money which his unoffending 
wife acquires by inheritance or industry." 
Two pages later we are told of the hus- 
band's responsibility for the debts con- 
tracted by his wife before marriage. " To 
this day," says Mr. Jeaffreson, "he is thus 
made commercially responsible for her, in 
consideration of his right to take and hold 
her property." A reference to tlje 
"Married Women's Property Act, 1870," 
would have shown Mr. Jeaffreson that a 
husband is no longer responsible for the 
debts of his wife contracted before mar- 
riage ; that a wife's earnings are in most 
cases made her separate property, and that 
much the same rule applies to property 
she may acquire by inheritance. 

While wc regret that Mr. Jeaffreson hat 
lo3t sight of the change thus recently 
introduced, we must allow that he pro- 
fesses to deal mainly with matters of a 
much earlier date. It may be difficult for 
the student of history, who has observed 
the tendency of our 'ancestors to treat the 
wife as the property of her husband, to 
believe that such a concession can have 
been made without a social revolution. 
Mr. Jeaffreson reminds us in his chapter on 
the discipline of wives, that an old Welsh 
law empowered a husband to give hi3 wife 
" three blows with a broom-stick on any 
part of her person except her head " ; 
pointing out at the same time that though 
the punishment was limited to three blows, 
it might be repeated as often as the hus- 
band thought fit. "The Anglo-Saxon 
husband," says Mr. Jeaffreson, " suspended 
from a convenient nail the stick with which 
he habitually chastised his wife;" — a 
touching domestic picture which reminds 
us of a criticism we once met with on a 
work of Mr. Tupper's. After a pretty se- 
vere castigation of that eminent man, the 
reviewer wound up with these words, — 
"We now replace the flagellum on its 
usual nail." A parallel of this nature 
would, of course, lead us to contrast the 
literary delinquency for which Mr. Tupper 
was punished with the domestic offence 
the Anglo-Saxon wife may be supposed to 
have committed, and upon that point there 
can be little doubt of the general verdict 

of reviewers. However, though Anglo- 
Saxon husbands were probably violent and 
arbitrary enough in ruling their house- 
holds, we question if any of them would 
have gono so far as that Duke of Somer- 
set whom Mr. Jeaffreson holds up as a 
pattern of outraged propriety. The 
duke's second wife on one occasion ventur- 
ed to put her arm round his neck and gave 
him a kiss, on which " the astonished and 
outraged Duke " exclaimed, " Madam, my 
first wife was a Percy, and yet she would 
not have taken such a liberty." It is per- 
haps significant of tlie subject' on of 
women that in earlier times not only were 
marriages sometimes contracted at an age 
when the bride could have no choice in 
the matter, but espousals were ofien made 
in infancy. The instance of the daughter 
of Edward I., who was espoused when four 
days old, and married before she had com- 
pleted her first year, is no doubt extreme, 
especially as she died at the age of six. 
But the opposite extreme is reached by 
the case of two persons who were engaged 
to each other when twenty years old and 
did not marry till sixty years had elapsed, 
postponing the match out of deference to 
some relations who disapproved of it. 

The necessity of being married eooner 
or later is forcibly inculcated by a chapter 
showing the attacks that have been made 
at different times on celibacy. In Henry 
VHL's time a writer who, perhaps, consid- 
ered that the King, like the Mormons 
mentioned by Artemus Ward, was very 
much married, and would therefore look 
with favour on such a proposal, recom- 
mended a tax on bachelors. In 1690 a 
pamphlet was published which cited a law 
of Lycurgus to the effjet that " they who 
lived unmarried and childless should be 
debarred from all sports, and forced to go 
naked in the winter about the market- 
place." Five years later Parliament im- 
posed a tax on bachelors varying with the 
social standing of each offender. An un- 
married Duke, after attaining the age of 
twenty -five, paid £12 10s. a year. An 
archbishop had to pay a shilling more ; a 
bishop was taxed at £5 Is. ; a dean at 
£2 lis.; a doctor of divinity, law, or 
physic, at a guinea ; and a gentleman at 
six shillings a year. A Parliament elected 
by female suffrage might view such taxes 
with favour, but we can not think that 
they were originally introduced with any 
design of promoting wedlock. Mr. Jeaffre- 
son shows that the same Act by which 
these dues were imposed, contained other 
provisions for taxing births and marriages, 
so that whether a man took a wife or re- 

"the white man's grave" 


mained single he had in either case to 
make a present to the Chancellor of the 
Exchequer. If the tax on marriage was 
Kghterin proportion than the tax on cel- 
ibacy, that was regulated not out of re- 
gard to the greater excellence of the mar- 
ried state, but with reference to the re- 
duced ability of paying. We almost 
wonder that such a graduated tax on all 
the 6tates and relations of life did not 
make special provision for the case of a 
man who married an heiress. Had any 
role of that kind prevailed, there would 
have been singular fitness in the publica- 
tion of the portions of newly-made bride3, 
of which Mr. Jeaffreson gives us a sam- 
ple: — 

44 The editor of the Gentleman* 9 Magazine 
wed to announce marriages thus : — 'Mr. 
tettto Miss Pell, with £-3,003; ' * Mr. Day is to 
Un. Wylds, with £400 per ann.;» Mho Lord 
Bishop of St. Asaph to Miss Orcll, with £30,- 
000; * * J. Whitcombe, Esq., to Miss Allen, with 
£40,000;' 4 Mr. N. Tillotsoo, the eminent 
preacher among the people allied Quakers, and 

s relative of Axohbishop Tillotson, to Miss , 

with £7,000; ' * Mr. P. Bowen to Miss Nichollsv 
tf Oreeohithe, with £10,000;' « Sir George G. 
to Widow Jones, with £10,000 a year, besides 
ready money.' At the same time the Sootch — 
■ore gallant than their fellow-countrymen of 
Booth Britain — whilst announcing the amount 
•f a bride's fortune, used also to mention her 
personal and moral endowments, as qualifica- 
tions scarcely less important than ber money. 
•On Monday last,' runs a matrimonial an- 
nouncement in the Glasgow Courant (1747), 
•Dr. Robert Hamilton, Professor of Anatomy 
sod Botany in the University of Glasgow, to 
Mist Molly Baird, a beautiful young lady with a 
handsome fortune. 9 Another marriage, which 
•scarred in the same year, is announced in the 
sun journal thus:— • On Monday last Mr. 
James Johnstone, merchant in this place, was 
married to Miss Peggy Newall, a young lady of 
great merit, and a fortune of £4,000.' " 

Among the curiosities of marriage, #f 
which Mr. Jeaffreson has made a largo 
collection, a place must be given to the 
wedding of a deaf and dumb man, for 
whom a special service bad to be devised. 
A certain set of signs was prescribed by 
the Bishop of London, to whom the puzzled 
clergyman referred the matter, and though 
the rubric could not be exactly followed, 
the marriage was considered binding. The 
same difficulty does not seem to have 
arisen in the case of espousals, for we are 
told that ** a spousal contract was firmly 
made if a marriageable man presented a 
ring to a marriageable woman, and she 
silently accepted it." But this was proba- 
bly a mere figment of ecclesiastical law, 

like the old theory under which marriages 
between persons "spiritually related" 
were declared invalid. Properly speaking, 
spiritual relationship existed between god- 
parents and their god-children, but it was 
soon extended to the descendants of both, 
and at last it assumed gigantic proportions. 
According to Mr. Jeaffreson, " there were 
jurists who insisted that every person who 
touched a child during the administration 
of baptism, or on its way from the font, 
became one of its spiritual relations. 
Some even went so far as to maintain that 
the quality of kinship was imparted at a 
christening to every person who accident- 
ally brushed against the robe of a newly- 
baptized infant." Subtleties of this kind 
would of course be prevalent in the days 
of pre-contracts. When there was no le- 
gitimate means of putting an end to a 
marriage which produced nothing but un- 
happiness, it was a grand discovery that 
you were spiritually related to one with 
whom you had no spiritual affinity. ■ But 
we are touching upon ground from which 
we have already warned ^Mr. Jeaffreson, 
and for fear of being tempted to follow his 
example by entering on the question of 
divorce, we must here take our leave of 
his volumes. 

From The Pall Mall Gazette, 

It would seem as if we were perpetually 
engaged in an undertaking like that of 
Penelope's web when carrying on the 
management of the vast empire which our 
enterprise has constructed for us in so 
many quarters of the world. Events, 
stronger either than policy or sentiment, 
shape our course. We can, apparently, 
neither resist the influences which tend 
towards disintegration in one quarter, nor 
those which tend towards consolidation- in 
another. Twenty years ago we let go a 
huge dependency, as large as England 
itself — the Orange Free State, in South 
Africa — and suffered it to develop into a 
Republic. Now, it seems likely to return 
to us, as it were, with interest : its people, 
or a large portion of them, incited by the 
diamond discoveries on the Vaal River — 
for diamonds, like gold, have a wonderful 
power for causing mere differences of 
language and race to be forgotten among 
men — appear to contemplate reunion 
with us, under some kind of federation 
beneath the British flag. In India we an- 
nex a kingdom — Oude — in one year, 



and drop a kingdom — Mysore — a few 
years later, under motives which, however 
rational or defensible iu each particular 
case, are wholly unconnected with those 
general precepts of statesmanship which 
old philosophers and young politicians are 
so ready to lay down for us. In America 
we give our zealous aid to every effort to 
stretch the geographical limits of the Do- 
minion of Canada in a narrow belt from 
the Atlantic to the Pacific; and yet at the 
same time the precarious nature of our 
connection with it is quietly admitted by 
all of us. In the Levant we have let the 
Ionian Islands fall from us, but we have 
built up a new and thriving dependency at 
Aden ; and now the philanthropic and 
commercial interests urge on us the ac- 
quisition of Zanzibar, with its hundred 
thousand commercial inhabitants, and its 
hold on the vast interior of Eastern Africa. 
On the Western side of the same continent 
we have just created the colony of Lagos, 
and purchased, for a few thousand pounds, 
certain Dutch forts and possession 9 on the 
feverish Gold Coast, the principal, Elmine, 
being close to our own headquarters at 
Cape Coast Castle. And by the same mail, 
apparently, which brings this intelligence, 
comes terrible news of sickness and death 
such as to raise the question, What are we 
to do with Sierra Leone, which is becom- 
ing, too unhealthy to hold? One-fourth, 
it appear*, of the hundred or so individ- 
uals who constitute the white population 
of this unfortunate colony nave died 
within the year. 

There is something not quite easily ex- 
plicable in the sanitary history of Sierra 
Leone, the " white man's grave " as it has 
been termed in melancholy volumes of 
travel romance. Sierra Leone does not- 
present, like its neighbour, the Gold Coast, 
a long strip of burning sand, washed by 
the ocean on the one hand, by the pesti- 
lential waters of innumerable brackish 
creeks on the other. Nor is it sheltered 
in an unhealthy way from purifying winds. 
Its rocky hills rise boldly from the sea, 
and, if they are still somewhat overgrown 
with rank vegetation, there has been cer- 
tainly time enough in eighty years of set- 
tlement to take energetic measures for its 
removal. It is the very first place of ren- 
dezvous of the fierce landward winds from 
the central and southern Atlantic — 

Kotus and A'ister, black with thunderous clouds 
From Serra Liona. 

The old Peninsular navigators gave it the 
name by which it is still known, not, aa 
is sometimes said, on account of its being 

haunted by liona, but because the perpetu- 
al roar of the sea along its rocky and cav- 
ernous coast sounded like the voice of 
those animal*. They dreaded the ever- 
lasting storms which seemed to gather on 
its summits. "They" (its peaks), says 
Dapper, the Dutch geographer, in 1670, 
"seem to blaze and flash iuceasantly with 
lightning, and also to give out such a 
terrible rumbling and grumbling of thun- 
der, that it may be heard at sea twenty- 
five miles off.*' It presents, in short, a 
very different climate from those regions 
to which we habitually attach the notion 
of special un wholesome ness — regions in 
which the sultry calm of months is only 
broken by weeks of monsoon; but it id 
deadly notwithstanding. In the eighty 
years which have elapsed since its occupa- 
tion not the slightest advantage seems to 
have been attained by skill and experience 
in fighting the unrelenting enemy. Few 
white denizens survive a few years' trial 
of it ; few of these escape suffering from 
permanent results of their sojourn there. 
Such is Sierra Leone; and although the 
few white traders on the Gold Coast boaat 
that their climate is, on the whole, some- 
what less unhealthy, the difference is at all 
events but slight aa regards the European 
constitution. Yet this region, so disastrous 
for Europeans, is one in which its own 
black children luxuriate in vigorous life. 
There are few sounder specimens of hu- 
manity than our fifty thousand black cul- 
tivators of the rich soil of Sierra Leone, 
though many of them are not indigenous 
but descended from rescued slaves. Still 
more hardy are the maritime races of the 
coast — the well-knowu " Kroomen " of At- 
lantic navigation. And long generations 
of war, slave-hunting, and massacres, have 
hardly thinned the swarming multitude up 
to the very gates of the bloody capitals of 
Ashantee and Dahomey. 

It is no doubt a discouraging reflection 
that the only colony in the world which 
was originally founded from purely disin- 
terested motives — with a view to the sup- 
pression of tho slave trade — should have 
been condemned to a lingering and morbid 
existence, not from the mistakes of men 
(unles3 the original choice of the site be 
so esteemed), but from the act of God, as 
lawyers phrase it. "I fear," said even 
Lord Grey, the stanch defender of our co- 
lonial government, twenty years ago — and 
things have not mended since — u it must 
be admitted to have disappointed the ex- 

S stations of its philanthropic founders."* 
evertheleas, that our anti-slave-trade pol- 
icy in general, of which the maintenance 



off Sierra Leone formed a part, has been 
on the West Coast of Africa thoroughly 
ttcceaaful for its purpose, can hardly be 
contested even by those to whom that pol- 
icy U in itself indifferent. But the world 
sis greatly changed since the British flag 
was raised at Sierra Leone in 1737. The 
West Indies, directly opposite, hare almost 
teased to be receptacles for slaves. Cuba 
slone remains, a perishing anomaly. Even 
far many years before President Lincoln'* 
emancipation, there was no outlet in the 
direction of the United States. There can 
be little substantial fear of the trade re- 
tiring in Brazil. We may pretty fairly as- 
some that (as far as the maritime trade 
from the western side of the great slave 
continent is concerned) this abomination 
ass come to an effectual and permanent 
end If so, is there any sufficient reason 
for maintaining odr sovereignty, and with 
it oar annual loss of useful lives, in this 
issalubrious region ? 

The answer can only be given in terms 
admitting that something is to be said on 
both sides of the question, unless by poli- 
ticians of the & priori colour, who never 
idmit of more than one. The trade of the 
Britiah West African coast is of some 
nine, and that increasing. It is repre- 
sented by the annual sum of about a mil- 
lion and a half, including exports and im- 
ports, of which Sierra Leone stands for 
wan than a third. Whether that trade 
would continue equally to flourish if our 
establishments (which are almost wholly 
maintained by local funds) were with- 
drawn, may perhaps be doubtful. But, 
however this might turn out, it is almost 
certain that our withdrawal would deal a 
heavy blow to the character of that trade, 
h is very questionable whether the half- 
caste dealers into whose hands it would 
foil would be restrained by any superfluity 
of scruple from wandering back into the 
old bad path. We have, indeed, said that 
me commerce in slaves from West Africa 
toother parts of the world is not likely to 
revive. But a strong impulse would prob- 
ably be given to the domestic traffic. 
The negro is still addicted, in the most 
disappointing way for philanthropists, to 
the baying and selling of his fellow-blacks. 
The very uncertainty of the traffic — the 
fights, massacres, captures which it pro- 
vokes, the many accidents to which a slave 
adventure by vessel or caravan is liable 
—while rendering the returns extremely 
uncertain, give the attractive character of 
•ambling to the business. It furnishes the 
dealer with the emotions which the lottery, 
the tori; and the Stock Exchange supply 

to Europeans. When a British expedi- 
tion, thirty years ago, ascended the Niger 
to open the interior country, its leaders 
left half way up the river a party of in- 
telligent emancipated coloured persons to 
look after a "model farm." When they 
descended, they found the intended civil- 
izers of the wilderness driving slaves, 
whom they had purchased, with cart-whips 
— the temptation was too strong for them. 
The objection to the retention of these set- 
tlements arising from their unhealthinesa 
is no doubt a serious one ; but we must not 
overrate it. Many trades and industries, 
the continuance of which is essential to 
human comfort, are terribly exacting in 
their demands on human life. Yet no one 
dreams of requiring their abandonment; 
nor does their perilousness operate to de- 
ter volunteers from engaging in them, any 
more than aspirants after colonial em- 
ployment are frightened from accepting 
it at Sierre Leone. ^ The only question is, 
whether the object is ono which it is for 
the public benefit to secure ; if it be so, 
we must not look too closely at the risk 
to human life involved in pursuing it, sup- 
posing it incurred only by men who are 
masters of themselves and able to count 
the cost. 

One precaution, however, is plainly de- 
manded; and it appears that Lord Kim- 
berley has announced that its importance 
will henceforth be fully recognized. If 
these places — and Sierra Leone in par- 
ticular — are still to be held as British 
dependencies, their administration should 
be carried on as far as possible — muoh 
further than has hitherto been recognized 
as possible — through the employment of 
natives or acclimatized half-castes. In this 
course of policy there should be no hesi- 
tation and falling back. " Patronage," as 
regards these settlements, should be abso- 
lutely renounced. No broken-down states- 
man about Parliament — no broken-down 
gentleman about town — no honest, indus- 
trious, likely aspirant with some interest 
and ready to take anything — should be 
sent to death or the hospital at Sierra Le- 
one. It may seem hard to official judg- 
ment to refuse such a favour to one only 
too ready to be thankful for it; but the 
rule is for the general interest, and 
should as such be sternly adhered to. 
What available material for the public 
service the native and mixed population 
of the coast may contain is of course as yet 
but imperfectly known ; but after eighty 
years of colonization and the expenditure 
of great sums on education it is reasonable 
to suppose that the race in question, which 



already furnishes the lower class of Govern- 
ment servants, can be trained to famish the 
higher also. There is one incidental point 
connected with this subject on which we 
stand in need of better information than 
we appear to possess. The tract of land 
called " Liberia," lying on the same coast 
with Sierra Leone, and a little eastward 
of it, was occupied by citizens of the Ameri- 
can Union fifty years ago, with a view to 
colonization by emancipated negroes from 
the States* Following American prece- 
dent, they formed themselves into a Repub- 
lic, with a coloured President. And we 
believe that they remain so to this day; 
but it is remarkable how little intelligence 
respecting them and their proceedings has 
become public in this country. The 
Americans are apt to vaunt their bold ex- 
periments a little beforehand; but they are 
very apt also to succeed in them. Accord- 
ing to the " Almanach de Gotha," Liberia 
possesses a Senate and House of Represen- 
tatives, a supreme court of justice, a diplo- 
matic corps, and a " Church distinct from 
the State." But the same authority adds 
that out of the eighteen thousand "civ- 
ilized" negroes who inhabit it — in the 
midst of some seven hundred thousand 
•' indigenous " — three thousand are " pre- 
paring to emigate." Further particulars 

From The Atheoeum. 


Historical research has strange sur- 
prises for those who engage in it. If ever 
anything seemed proved by sufficient evi- 
dence it was the story told by Mr. Forster, 
in hia " Sir John Eliot," about the loan of 
the ships to bo used against the Protes- 
tants of Rochelle. Nobody, in fact, who 
had read the documents on which Mr. 
Forster relied could reasonably have come 
to any other conclusion than that Charles 
and Buckingham deliberately gave over 
the ships for use against the Protestants. 
And yet, in the course of the investiga- 
tions which are now being made under the 
authority of the Camden Society, fresh 
evidence has been brought to light which 
entirely overthrows the received explana- 

That the first application made by the 
French in January, 1625, was cheerfully 
responded to by "Charles and Bucking- 
ham, as well as by James, there can be 

no doubt whatever. The English Gov- 
ernment was, at that time, still hopeful 
of converting the French al.iance into 
a reality, and was willing to pay almost 
any price that might be asked. Bat 
when the contracts for the ships were 
signed in March', we already hear of doa- 
ble dealing, culminating in the letter of 
May 18, in which Sir John Coke informed 
Pennington, the commander of the expedi- 
tion, that no clauses in the contract should 
entangle him "in the civil war* of the 
French if any happen, or against those of 
our religion in that kingdom or elsewhere," 
the contract mentioned having directly 
bound the King to allow the ships to be 
used " against whomsoever, except the 
King of Great Britain." The ordinary 
view of the case of course is, that Charles 
and Buckingham wanted to cheat Pen- 
nington. If this part of the story stood 
alone, I should have no documentary evi- 
dence to bring against it. But, knowing 
what I do know of the future course of the 
affair, I have no doubt that they meant to 
cheat the French. In favour of this view 
it may at least be urged that it is the logi- 
cal result of the situation. On the 18th of 
May, the chance of converting the French 
alliance into a league for an avowed war 
was almost desperate. Buckingham had 
just started for France, on that expedi- 
tion which is chiefly remembered on ac- 
count of his impudence in making love to 
the Queen, but which was undertaken in 
the hope of inducing Lewis to engage 
openly in the continental war, and espe- 
cially to take part in a joint attack upon 
Flanders. Whether his diplomacy failed 
or not, Buckingham would be unwilling to 
allow the ships to be used against the 
Protestants. If he could effect a peace in 
France, the ships could be used for an old 
scheme of his, in an expedition against 
Genoa. If he failed, he would wish to 
keep them at home. 

His diplomacy did fail, and we then find 
a 8 e ties of delays. The ships were ready 
in April ; but Pennington was told that he 
would be wanted to escort Henrietta 
Maria to England ; and in one way or an- 
other, the ships were detained so long that 
they only reached Dieppe on the 12th of 
June. When Pennington reached his des- 
tination he found that the French spoke 
freely of employing him against Rochelle, 
and being unable to reconcile the contra- 
dictory orders which he had received, he 
made up his mind to slip back to England 
on the 27th, on the plea that Dieppe Roads 
were an unsafe anchorage. 

The first thought of Charles or Bucking 



ham,— the French despatches are not 
precise as to the person from whom the 
! words came, — was to assert boldly that 
the ships wore not bound to fight against 
Rochelle. But the words of the contract 
were too clear, and to all outward appear* 
anoe the King made up his mind to com- 
ply with the wishes of the French. Buck- 
ingham apparently threw himself heart 
and soul into their cause. He himself 
went down to Rochester to take part in 
negotiations between the French Ambas- 
sador Effiat and the owners of the mer- 
chant ships, of which, with the single ex- 
ception of the King's ship tho Vanguard, 
the squadron was composed. He wrote 
on the 16th of July to Pennington to hast- 
en back with* all speed to Dieppe, and on 
the 18tli he followed his directions up by 
an order to place the ships unreservedly 
in the hands of the French. As if thU 
were not enough, he despatched his confi- 
dential servant, Edward Nicholas, to ac- 
company Effiat to Dieppe to see that the 
lorrender was really effected. If more be 
wanted in the way of proof that Bucking- 
bam was in earnest, we have numerous 
letters detailing the efforts made by Nich- 
olas to carry out his instructions, which 
appear, on the face of these letters, to have 
tiled simply from the mutinous resolve 
of the crews to take no part in fighting 
against Rochelle. 

And now let us look behind the scenes. 
On the 19th of July, Buckingham writes 
to Pennington, on hearing of mutinous 
proceedings amongst the sailor3, that he 
* cannot but wonder as well as be sorry 
that any such disorder should happen as 
the withdrawing of the mariner* from 
their duty and obedience " ; and that he 
requires him to surrender the ships " ac- 
cording to the directions" he had given 
hj his secretary Nicholas. The very next 
day Pembroke was sending the following 
message to Pennington : — 
"That the. letters which Capt Penning- 
\ ton sent the Lord Duke of Buckingham's 
Grace to himself and the Lord Conway 
vas the best news that could come to the 
Court, and that the Kiug and al